Bright Swords (Renegades Saga, Book 6)
by Renegades Inc
Summary: The galaxy is in flames, yet brilliant flames cast deep shadows. Warmaster Horus of the Coalition, with unlikely allies, sets out to forge new blades to fight in that darkness, against the forces of Chaos, against the man Horus once called Father - but does he truly understand where this path will lead them? Written by Deus Mortis, since 2012. Takes place beginning late 003.M31.
1. Introduction

It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, led by the former imperial Warmaster Horus, are beginning their campaigns against the corrupted Imperium of Man.

Against them, the nigh-immortal Emperor waits on his Golden Throne. Allied with him are the four Chaos Gods, eldritch nightmares thirsting for human suffering. The Space Marines, once the Imperium's finest soldiers, are divided. Yet on the whole, men and worlds are flocking to Horus's Coalition, driven by both the Warmaster's charisma and the Emperor's tyranny.

Horus and his Primarch brothers know it is unlikely to be enough. Frontier reports have reported ethereal creatures of an unknown nature appearing and massacring whole populations. The Warmaster is not taking this threat lightly, and so he has resolved to form a new force to combat this threat most dire, as part of an improbable alliance. Some battles, however, are best fought in silence. And some lights shine brightest in the darkest night.

The screams and pleas of the innocent will have no effect - not anymore. The age of debate and enlightenment is over. The dream of empire has ended.

The nightmare has begun.


	2. Chapter One: Inceptum

Ahriman drew his robe closer around his body. His hood fell over his eyes and shadowed his identity. The bowels of _The Vengeful Spirit_ were quiet on this evening, just as Horus had promised. Ahriman had been winding deeper and deeper into the ship for at least an hour now, and had yet to encounter any mortals. Indeed, he had yet to see anyone. Ahriman fought back the animal instinct to question whether he was going the right way. He _knew_ he was, on a level as far above typical human understanding as that understanding was above reptilian drives.

He walked a little faster as he thought of the events of the last twelve hours. Since Prospero, he had been at his father's side. He had talked at length about the duration of the campaign, and what lay ahead for the Thousand Sons. They would fight, that much was certain, for the memory of Prospero's death still burnt brightly in every heart remaining to the Legion. Even though they were all skeptical how much help would be, they all knew that if they didn't fight now, then there would likely never be an Imperium worth fighting for ever again.

This was why Horus tearing him away from his father puzzled Ahriman. Not that Magnus seemed to have minded. Horus had simply taken him after the Warmaster had spoken at length with Magnus, neither of them saying a word to the Thousand Sons' First Captain. He was then marched through the corridors, Horus still not speaking a word to him. Horus had then put him in the Thunderhawk he had arrived in, hurried him into the storage bay, and told him not to leave until instructed. Ahriman had stayed there for hours before he heard voices. Still, no one beckoned him out. He felt the aircraft take off, and still did not make a sound. Even once he felt the metal bird land, no one told him to move. The silence stayed for a long period after that.

Finally, a metal tap had resonated through the compartment he had been holed up in. He opened the door to be greeted only by a servitor carrying a folded robe and a data-slate. "Exchange your armour for the robe. Horus expects you," came the metal chime.

"Why?" Ahriman had asked.

"Exchange your armour for the robe. Horus expects you," was the only response he got. Ahriman had growled quietly to himself. He had done as he was told and handed the servitor his armour and donned the robe, glancing at the data-slate for where he was meant to go. Yet as he walked through the desolate corridors, he felt, with his Corvidae psychic powers, the threads of fate converging into a butterfly-winged seed. By the time he was at the halfway point, though his confusion as to the purpose of whatever this was remained undiminished, he had no doubts about its importance, and knew easily where to walk without glancing at the data-slate.

Finally, he reached the chamber, buried in the bottom-most reaches of the ship. He tapped twice on the bare metal with his bare hand. The door slid open just a crack and Ahriman opened it the rest of the way, stepping inside. To a mere human, there would appear to be no one there, but Ahriman could see seven fellow figures at the peripheries of the room. He took a few steps forward. Everyone else here seemed equally as confused as him as to their purpose here, but none left. They just stood there, waiting for whoever had told them to be here to appear.

Only a few moments passed in silence before the ninth person did. The stature of the man testified to who he was, even before he pulled his hood down to reveal his face. "Sons. Surrogates. These are dark times." Horus spoke with none of his usual charisma. His voice was deep and sombre, a testament to how desperate their situation was that bled brutal honesty. "Our father has fallen to the Dark Gods. He had warned us not to dabble to deeply in the things of the Warp…" Horus continued, and Ahriman was surprised not to feel every eye instantly converge on him, as was usually the custom. So far, however, the only identities he knew were his own and Horus's. The rest were still veiled by their hoods, similar to his own. "…Lest we fall prey to the evil he himself has. The Imperium readies for war with itself, and all we have striven to build seems to be on the edge of ruin. Our strength of arms can match our brothers', and worlds loyal to the ideals on which this Imperium was built join with us."

Here Horus paused, very deliberately as always, but Ahriman could not guess why. They all knew the situation they faced, and Horus was surely aware he did not need to remind them of it. "But while our numbers and industry are no weaker than our enemies', we face threats of other types. Our father had made pacts with powers beyond his control, and against them we are at a disadvantage. We need a weapon to combat this threat. Remove your hoods and let your brothers see your faces." There was a moment of hesitation, no one yet comprehending what their purpose here was. Tylos Rubio pulled back his hood first. A split second later, Ahriman removed his. Then Umojen. Then Targutai. Then several others whom Ahriman did not know removed theirs until they all stood with unveiled faces. "Tylos. Ahriman. Kastix. Targutai. Valleus. Balsar. Guryoi. Felix. You are to be our first weapons in that other-war. Our bright true swords."

Fate was roiling, potential time swirling as if on the brink of a precipice. "That still doesn't explain why we are here, sir," Ahriman said, only a fraction of a second later realising he had said what the whole company of warriors was thinking. In response to his words, a tenth figure stepped out of the shadows -

And the future shattered, blocked out by the present like a star's light blocked the void beyond it, and Ahriman knew in an instant he was in the company of a seer with power greater than his own.

"You are all here because you possess a measure of psychic talent, active or latent, and that is the only thing which can harm the denizens of the warp." The newcomer's lithe form and pointed helm marked him out as inhuman.

"Brothers this is Eldrad of Craftworld - "

"Xenos witch!" came the spat remark from Felix. His hard-set jawline and grim stance made Ahriman guess that he was an Iron Warrior. And a techmarine, judging by the Mechanicum brand on his forehead. The Iron Warriors had never been comfortable with psykers, though unlike the Death or Raven Guard they tolerated them. "Sir, with all due respect, I will not consort which this xenos monstrosity or be accused of witch-craft!"

"No one accuses you of that, Felix. But you _are_ gifted. We have all seen you work with machines." Felix seemed to look noticeably uncomfortable at this point.

"I'm just…well trained sir." Horus smiled. Not out of humour but out of pity that the man in front of him was having to face something he had always avoided.

"You know that's not true. You have surpassed veterans' knowledge without much effort at all. How many times have you achieved impossible repairs or found your opponents weapons jamming or failing simply because you wished they would." The light of realisation was slowly dawning in Felix's eyes.

"I'm not a witch," he said out of blind defiance, unwilling to become what he had always hated. Horus laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder and with one sentence washed away any doubt, as only a Primarch could.

"No, but you are a psyker, and that is what we need you to be."

Felix's stance slackened, but his eyes still glared at the eldar psyker before him.

"I understand your mistrust. Truth be told, I take no more pleasure in dealing with your race than you do in dealing with mine. But, as your…" Eldrad seemed to almost gag at the word, as if it were unpalatable or unnatural to him. "…Warmaster said, these are dark times, and we must ally ourselves with one another if we are to survive the coming storm."

With that, Horus resumed his mantle of spokesman once again. "The Eldar have a suppository of knowledge which they have gathered on the powers of the warp. You have all proven yourself as able warriors and, as psykers, resistant to the temptations of the warp. But I must ask more of you. You must be more than resistant, you must be incorruptible. You will be tested as never before. Your legions will mourn you, for you must die to them so you may live for our cause. Your old lives are gone, all that remains is to begin your new ones. You will go with Eldrad to hangar Gamma-6 and take the Stormraven. In it you will find new suits of armour, bare of all iconography or legion allegiance, for you are all one brotherhood now. You will join the Craftworld and they will lead you from there. You will likely not be seen by my eyes again for at least a year, and when you return you will be changed. Then, your task will begin in earnest. Now go."

They all saluted Horus and left, being led by the Eldar... Farseer, Ahriman believed they were called. His contemplations only touched on the xeno, or the unexpected alliance, for his own fate was too far from clear. They were being forged into a new weapon against the powers of the warp. Ahriman could see the benefits of having psykers in such a brotherhood, but why did they need the Eldar? Where were they going? What awaited them?

The unanswered questions echoed around in Ahriman's mind as he walked in silence with cousins from different legions. They were supposed to become a brotherhood, but the Thousand Sons were the only brothers he had known and leaving them pained him, even now, before the depth of this change had had a chance to sink in. Leaving his primarch pained him, even now. Their hard footsteps resonated through the barren corridors though which they walked, just as the unanswerable questions resonated through the eight psykers' minds. They boarded the light transport Horus had instructed them to, in those hours of awakening too absorbed in their private thoughts to communicate with one another. As they lifted off, the only sound that could be heard in the confines of the hull was the dull rumble of the engines.


	3. Chapter Two: Socialis

Jar-Lai stood guard in front of the Banshee temple. Eldrad had left over a week ago in order to make contact with Horus, after they had communicated via psychic messages for over a month. The mon-keigh were a barbaric race, and first communications had not been easy. There was much distrust from the mon-keigh, and their blind ideas of superiority and several conflicts with their kin had brokered no greater levels of trust.

But Eldrad had changed that. He had shown Horus the dangers of the Warp, and the ends those dangers could lead to. Horus had conferred with one he called Magnus, the Cyclops to those who saw him in the Warp, and found that all he had been told was true. Many on Ulthwe had been apprehensive about sending Eldrad with no bodyguard to a species which was renowned for their violence. Eldrad had, however, expressed faith that Horus would be true to his word, and so they had let him go.

Now he was returning, and he bore humans with him. Eldrad had informed them that they were to be treated as guests and allies and afforded every privilege. However, violence was not to be tolerated, and thus Jar-Lai stood outside her aspect temple, in anticipation of the Astartes. The transport Ulthwe had sent to collect Eldrad and his companions would be returning within a day or so. The Craftworld awaited its return with wary eyes.

* * *

"And what of our brothers? Is not our place with them?" Kastix almost shouted at Rubio. A large portion of their transition was spent in debate. They had been thrown together too fast to form any real bonds with one another, and so there was obvious friction between them.

"Do you not think Horus knows our aversion to leaving our brothers? Do you believe that he would tear us away from our brothers, our Primarchs, unless it was absolutely necessary? None of us feel comfortable leaving the fight, cousin, but we must trust in the necessity of our charge."

"You aren't leaving the fight, son of the Cyclops," Eldrad spoke. He had spoken very rarely during their transit, but when he had he spoke in riddles such as these. His voice was ghostly and ancient. Each syllable seemed to exist for but a moment, and then it was carried away by the wind. "You are simply fighting from a different angle. You Astartes must understand this."

Ahriman could not tell whether Eldrad meant his comment as a simple statement or as a more malicious barb, although he suspected the second option more. Ahriman knew that the eldar thought of them as primitive, due to their species having emerged long before humanity. Eldrad motioned for them to stand, and so they did. They had arrived. Felix glanced out the portside windows and saw just the cold vacuum of open space.

"Eldar trickery, there is nothing here!" Felix let out an exasperated cry.

"Quiet, Man of Iron. My kin will be here soon, and they will not appreciate you xenophobia" Eldrad said sternly. But his words were not hissed or spat, but said only with a slight edge of hostility which brokered no argument.

Ahriman looked out of the other windows, and saw nothing. If they were to go on, he had no idea how. Suddenly, the vacuum vomited forth the sleekest ship Ahriman, or indeed any of them, had ever seen. It was easily the size of an Astartes battle cruiser. The whole cabin was held silent in awe. "Our passage to my people, Astartes," Eldrad said, making no attempt to hide his pride that the eight battle-plated Astartes were held silent by the sight before them.

The transport docked onto the eldar cruiser, though next to the smooth alabaster slopes of this eldar ship, it seemed boxy and ugly. Everything here was utterly alien to the transhumans gathered here. "Farseer Eldrad." Another eldar, male judging by his voice, met them at the head of a host of eldar. "And welcome to your companions." The eight of them stood there for a moment, unsure of how to act. Ahriman took the first step forward.

"I am Ahriman, Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons and gene-son of Magnus, the one your Farseer called the Cyclops."

"I am Rubio, Epistolary of the Ultramarines and gene-son of Guilliman."

"I am Targutai, Stormseer of the White Scars and gene-son of the Great Khan."

"I am Umojen, Chief Librarian of the Ultramarines and gene-son of Guilliman."

"I am Guryoi, Epistolary of the Luna Wolves and gene-son of Horus."

"I am Kastix, Epistolary of the Raven Guard and gene-son of Corax." Ahriman remembered Corax's creation of the Raven Guard Librarium under restrictions far more severe than those in other Legions, a gesture of peace in the Librarius controversy that was not followed.

"I am Balsar, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels and gene-son of Sanguinius."

There was a pause as everyone waited for Felix. He grunted and released his name. "I am Felix, Master of the Forge of the Iron Warriors and gene-son of Perturabo."

The head of the host of black eldar before them looked across each of them in turn.

"Welcome, Astartes and Seers, to the company of Ulthwé." He bowed a knee to them, but it was clearly a formality as much as their speech was. Whatever these aliens' relationship was with Horus, there was still animosity between the warriors here.

"I will not bow to a xeno freak," Felix hissed across the private vox.

"There are over a hundred of them, Felix. You would do well to remember we are allies here, not enemies." Targutai spat back, as a brief moment of awkwardness passed as the Astartes stayed standing. Balsar was the first to bend his knee. Ever the diplomatic blood of Sanguinius prevailed. The rest followed in turn, and the tension relaxed.

Only Felix remained standing, even until everyone else had stood back up. "Will you not kneel?" Eldrad asked, neither his anger or curiosity apparent in his voice.

"No, seer. I will not," Felix said as he moved toward the leader of the host. "I would ask this one's name." He towered over the black armoured figure, and the men behind him bristled with the thought of impending threat.

"Felix, for Throne's sake!" Ahriman hissed, seething at his cousin's rash action. Felix did not move, but continued to stand over the eldar male.

"I am called Inwé Shallowstar, in your tongue." Felix's hand came abruptly from his side up in front. The first few eldar draw blades or made guns ready to fire, but the blow they expected never came. The hand simply hovered between the two figures. Inwé looked at it slightly confused.

"I cannot bow to anyone but my Primarch and gene-sire. But I offer you a warrior's handshake. As an ally," Felix said, unphased by the weapons leveled against him. Inwé looked for a moment longer, before gripping it at the wrist.

"It appears there is still mistrust in both of our companies." Inwé said, almost humoured by his own assumption of the warrior's violent intentions.

The hand-shake ended and the company of warriors moved into the belly of the ship to be shown their quarters. As they walked Ahriman opened up a private vox to Felix.

"That was a bloody dangerous move there cousin."

"But it did prove two points."

"And what would those be?"

Under his helm, Felix smiled. "One, that the Eldar consider us a violent people. And two, that they need to trust us as much as we trust them."

 _It was still bloody risky_ , Ahriman thought to himself. They entered into a large chamber with eight doors leading out of it. The whole ship seemed to be formed out of this strange alabaster material which sung a gentle note, audible to only those with a sixth sense such as those gathered here. Inwé turned to them. Even as he started speaking, the Astartes group split off to claim a room and spend some time alone.

"These will serve as your chambers until we reach Ulthwé. We are sure you would appreciate some time to rest and refresh yourselves. Food and drink will be brought to you. Farseer Eldrad will expect you to be ready to begin training in six hours." They all turned back to face the eldar.

"What manner of training?" Ahriman asked.

"Training for your new task as guardians of your Imperium," Inwé said as he left the group to separate and ponder what manner of trials these xenos had prepared for them.


	4. Chapter Three: Judicium

Umojen lay, cross-legged, on the floor of his chamber. He had spent the first four hours asleep in the bunk the eldar had provided for him. He had been slightly confused by the slab of what had appeared to be marble in the corner of the room, but once he had laid down on it, the material had bent and shifted under his weight to fit him like a glove. Once he had gotten up, he had seen the clear contours of his body melt and reform back into a solid block once again. After that, he had walked out into the main junction where Inwé had left them. Sure enough, there were large bowls of fruit, or at least he assumed they were fruit as they were sweet and juicy to his bite, even if they did not look like any fruit he had ever seen. He had then washed and was now in his robe from _The Vengeful Spirit_ , training despite appearances.

He had been flexing his mental muscles, reaching out into the void around where they were. He could feel the psychic radiation from most of his brothers. They were like light bulbs in a room already faintly lit by psychic light, bright pockets of psychic power amongst a sea of inherent eldar psychic talent. Ahriman's seemed to be the brightest, like a supernova in the warp. As much as Umojen was hesitant about Ahriman and his Thousand Son brethren, they did eclipse almost any Astartes he knew in psychic might. Targutaii's light was like the eye of a storm, always swirling and shifting, but ready to unleash its power at any moment. Kastix's psychic signature was faint, but almost deliberately. If Umojen tried to peer too deep into the signature, he was aware of both the fact that the weaker observable power was deceptive and that the man behind the psychic presence knew he was being watched. Balsar's signature in the warp was bright, not through power alone, but just radiant splendour, clearly a lesser version of his primarch's own psychic presence. Guryoi's was like a jet-engine on a low power. It seemed ready to roar into life at any moment, but less potent at the present moment. Felix's was the most difficult to discern. His presence in the warp was like a shackled beast, powerful but constrained. Umojen wondered by what. Was it his Primarch who had imposed such limitations, or another?

Rubio's signature was almost melded with his own, and so Umojen opened his eyes. "How long have you stood there, Tylos?"

"7 minutes, 36 seconds sir," came Rubio's curt response. Umojen grunted and nodded in acceptance. He rose to his feet, and turned to face the Epistolary. "We still have 20 minutes before the Farseer expects us."

"You wish to speak, Tylos?"

"Plainly, sir." Umojen knew Rubio was abiding by Legion etiquette, but given their situation, it hardly seemed necessary.

"Speak as plainly as you see fit," Umojen said with a smile.

"We are consorting with xenos. This goes against everything which the Great Crusade stood and still stands for. We are supposed to be fighting for the return of the Imperium, not steeping ourselves in eldar witchcraft!" Rubio blurted out, as if Umojen's command to speak had opened the flood-gates.

"Given any day, any hour, I would agree with you, Tylos." Rubio waited at the door, knowing there was more to come. "But today is not any day, and the hour is not any hour. These could be the closing days of humanity, of the Imperium. Remember that the Emperor banned the use of psychic powers, but we will be called to use them once again, I believe before this day is out. Should we not, even if it were to win us the war, simply because the Nikean edict commands it?" The cogs were clearly turning in Rubio's head as he processed the comparison, and the rationale. He was an honourable marine, dependable. But sometimes his adherence made him to brittle.

"I understand, sir," was all he could think to say. Rubio could understand the logic, but something about it still felt intrinsically wrong to him.

"At this instance, I would advise you to recall Remark 101 . _"What wins the fight wins the fight…"_ "

" _…Ultimately, nothing should be excluded if that exclusion leads to defeat._ " Rubio repeated their Primarch's words of wisdom with his senior officer.

The issue resolved, at least logically, the two Ultramarines left the room and made their way to the chambers where Eldrad would expect them. They were precisely 2 minutes and 37 seconds early by the time they arrived, but were not the first. Balsar and Guryoi were already there, stripped to the waist and sparring with xenos longswords. Neither had a scratch, but both were drenched in sweat. Umojen and Rubio guessed that it was a contest of first-blood, and stood at the side of the arena to watch.

For a few more moments, the two simply traded blows. Suddenly, Balsar quickened his pace, striking Guryoi with a flurry of blows that forced him back. Each one was blocked by the Luna Wolf, but at considerable effort. Two successive blows forced Guryoi onto his back foot. After three more he seemed to lose his balance. Guryoi fell back, but quicker that he would have naturally, so that Balsar's slash with the sword missed him entirely. Having chosen to fall and so pushed himself over, Guryoi was already braced to hit the ground, and a split-second later had rolled to the side and slipped his sword under Balsar's guard so that is pierced his right breast. A drop of blood welled up as the Blood Angel realised he had been fooled into letting his opponent fall. "Dirty trick," Balsar said with a mixture of amusement and disappointment at his loss. Guryoi opened his mouth to speak when someone else spoke up.

"Needs must when the Devil drives, son of Sanguinius," Eldrad spoke in his cryptic voice as he entered the room, flanked by Inwé and a second eldar they had not seen before. His face was a mirror and a bright cowl hung over his head. His clothes were a multitude of unrelated and clashing colours.

The others had entered the room without Umojen even noticing. They were all now gathered, and Balsar and Guryoi were just about finished donning their armour. Umojen noticed that none of them, not even the eldar hosts, were without armour. A few - Ahriman, Guryoi, and himself - did not wear their helmets, but that was all. As far as diplomacy went, the message was clearly one of distrust. And yet...

"Noble Astartes, this is the Shadowseer of the Harlequin troupe currently assisting Ulthwé. They have agreed to consider granting you access to their Black Library…" A juvenile grin of glee played across Ahriman's features as Eldrad spoke to them. Clearly, this 'Black Library' was something the Thousand Sons knew of, and were interested in. Already, Umojen could guess what it might contain. "…it contains all the universe's knowledge concerning Chaos. In the right hands, it would be a potent and deadly weapon - though deadlier still if the hands were wrong."

Eldrad paused for a moment, and Umojen noticed that the Shadowseer was rolling on the balls of his feet, yet none of the rest of his body moved. He wondered if it was nerves or impatience, but it was hard to tell when the xeno's face was hid beneath a mask. "However, such tomes contain sorceries and tainted knowledge far beyond your reckoning. Before they will allow you to even glimpse the corner of a single page, you must prove yourselves as not only capable warriors and sorcerers, worthy of wielding such knowledge, but also immune to the temptations of the Enemy…"

"…Which is why we are here." Kastix finished for him.

"Correct, Son of the Raven." Eldrad said, inclining his head.

"How are we to be tested?" Targutai asked.

"You will face me in combat," the Shadowseer spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly jovial - indeed, he sounded almost on the edge of laughter. Quite why, Umojen couldn't fathom. But there was something else about him that stood apart from the rest of the Eldar he had seen or met, here or on the battlefield.

"I volunteer to challenge you first." Targutai spoke with confidence which was far more apparent than his nervousness at facing an enemy he knew almost nothing about. The blank mask snapped to him and remained fixed for a moment. He stared into the mirror image for a second and saw himself. Except he was older, with scars he knew he didn't have. As he blinked in confusion, the image broke and he only saw himself again. Then the mask nodded and the marines and eldar moved to the side of the arena in the centre. Targutai went to remove his helmet, but the Shadowseer stopped him.

"Keep your armour on. You won't be fighting without it against any other foe."

There was a range of human-esque weapons to choose from. Most were swords of varying length and weights, but there were also halberds, maces, axes and hammers. Targutai held one of the halberds in his hands. It felt comfortingly like his force staff, which was good: he knew what he could and could not do with his staff. Plus it gave him additional reach, which was always a good thing. He turned to face his opponent who appeared to be trying to remember a dance. The Shadowseer took slight steps and hops, occasionally twirling. Once he - well, the White Scar assumed it was male under the mask - noticed the Astartes was ready to face him, the 'dance' became more extravagant. Targutai readied his halberd and came at him. Then his head violently throbbed with pain, only his latent training as a Stormseer causing it to subside a measure. He should have anticipated a psychic attack, but the magnitude was what had caught him off guard. He missed a step, as he brought his full powers to bear. Even as he swung at the Shadowseer, which nimbly danced out of the way, it spoke to him. "You should always utilise every weapon at your command. Never forget that."

"I haven't" Targutai snarled under his helm. He swung again with his halberd, and when the Shadowseer moved he hurled an invisible wall of energy at it. It rode the wall like a wave, landing gracefully on its feet and retaliated with its own psychic attack.

Horrors and fears assailed Targutai's mental walls, even as the Shadowseer moved with incredible speed to attack him. Every blow was barely met with a parry from the Astarte. Each time the mirrored face drew near, a leering monster stared out at the Stormseer. It had razor fangs which dripped venom and intense, burning yellow eyes that seemed to speak of suffering and corruption. Targutai lashed out with a jab at where the Shadowseer was; in response, the Eldar flipped over the blade and punched his helm with enough force to flick his head back. Targutai answered with a psychic attack in tandem with his physical one. His halberd sliced up and down, forcing the Shadowseer to perform more elaborate manoeuvres to avoid its cutting blade. Even as this was occurring, he began to expand his mental walls, forcing the eldar seer back. Faint arcs of lightning sparked between to two as their powers fought for supremacy, just at sparks flew from colliding weapons.

But with every blow, Targutai seemed to be tiring. He could not keep up his onslaught forever, and yet the Shadowseer seemed no less tired than when they had begun. His moves did not falter even by a millimetre, and each twist was as graceful as the last. After a few long moments of relative calm, the Shadowseer assaulted him with another brutal flurry of strikes. Targutai was forced to concentrate more on his physical defence. Even as he started to force the Shadowseer back, a lance of psychic force struck him past his quiescent shields, knocking him flat on his back. The Shadowseer ceased his dance, and it was clear that the challenge was over.

Targutai stepped up and put his weapon back. If it had been only physical combat, he might have stood a fair chance. But a blend of psychic and physical combat with a being who was at least equal, if not superior, at both was a battle he could not win - not when the foe knew how to fight Targutai, but he had known nothing of their abilities. As if reading his thoughts, the Shadowseer spoke. "You must achieve a balance between physical and mental attack and defence. The foes you face have done so since their inception, and you must learn to do likewise, or die."

The light tone of the Shadowseer only dropped for the last two words, and that slightly; yet Targutai could not miss the severity of the warning. As he mulled the implications of those words for the still-mysterious project, Rubio stood to face the eldar next, and the dance started up again.


	5. Chapter Four: Eruditio

Eldrad stood on the night-colored surface of Ulthwé, gazing into the cold heart of the stars. He was scrying the strands of fate, watching them twist and intertwine like the web of some transcendent spider. He tried to plot the path of Ulthwé, of the mon-keigh they had taken with them. Would their mission end in success? Would it make a difference to the coming war?

"You seek the fate of our people, exalted seer." A jovial voice chimed in, breaking Eldrad's concentration. The shadowseer glided in line with Eldrad, joining him in staring into space. For a long while, the silence of the void that surrounded their armor was their only communication. The shadowseer knew that Eldrad would speak if he wished, but he could not force him to otherwise. After those moments of quiet, Eldrad broke the calm with a sigh.

"I don't want this to be in vain. We risk so much of our people and secrets that we have guarded since the fall of the Eldar Empire. I would not squander it unnecessarily."

The shadowseer listened intently but said nothing. All of Ulthwé, indeed all eldar, knew of this fear. The human Emperor could plunge the galaxy into darkness and chaos with his worship to the Pantheon, and the turning of this war could well rest on the shoulders of the eight mon-keigh that were now aboard the craftworld. Yet even so, Eldrad could not put his trust in humanity. He doubted any eldar could.

"They will rise to the challenge, Farseer. They are young, but we will age them and train them. They will understand. Then more will follow them." The shadowseer spoke with a surreal air of confidence. He had seen glimpses of their souls in their battles. Eldrad suspected that he had seen they were the best choices, and that had not been by chance. Perhaps they indeed had potential to be everything that the eldar and humanity needed if they could survive the coming trials... or, perhaps, this was all just another joke.

Eldrad nodded, mulling over the words of the harlequin. Again, silence enveloped the duo. Eldrad turned back to trying to divine the strands of fate. Suddenly, one of the threads quivered and snapped. A powerful psyker, one of the most powerful to have ever existed, had just died. More than that, his soul had exploded, sending ripples of psychic energies out from his point of death. Eldrad knew of only a few psykers of that magnitude. One was the Cyclops, but Eldrad knew it was not him. His flame still burnt brightly on his new homeworld. This 'Emperor' was another, but it could not be him either. But the energy was similar. It was a relation, a similar being, and the death throe came from the cradle of humanity. It was the lesser Emperor, the one called Malcador. Eldrad had met him when he was young, and he doubted the mon-keigh remembered. Now he felt him end, his soul obliterated into a thousand shards by one close to him. The 'Emperor' was purging Terra, Eldrad assumed. Only someone of a similar psychic magnitude would be able to do that. Things were darkening quicker than Eldrad had hoped.

"You had better be right, Shadowseer. If you have felt what I just felt, you know we must test them at once. They will either be ready now, or they will never be ready in time," Eldrad said morbidly. He turned to enter the craftworld. He wished they had more time, or at least that he could be certain that they would succeed, that they could hold back the denizens of hell which they had helped create. But the dice were already cast, and for better or worse, he had placed his lot with the eight Astartes on his home. And Eldrad's place was not one in which such truths could be denied.

The eight Astartes would walk their path of night... and if they could not, then Eldrad knew, from what he had seen, that Ulthwe would need to walk its own.

* * *

Felix hit the floor hard. Ahriman's bolt of psychic power had knocked him off his feet again. He skidded for a couple of seconds before friction brought him to a halt.

"You aren't trying." Ahriman's voice was harsh with annoyance as Felix brought himself back to his feet.

"I am," he grunted, annoyed at the sorcerer for punishing him so.

"No, you aren't." Ahriman seemed quite certain of this fact. They had been at this for hours over the past days since the shadowseer had defeated them all (though Ahriman's own bout had ended in a draw, but in any case the test of worthiness had been an indirect one), and still Felix refused to use his blatant psychic powers. Nothing. Not even the slightest release and Ahriman was beginning to get frustrated. "You will cause us all to fail," Ahriman near-spat. Felix's gaze snapped up to the Thousand Son, whose helm glared steadily back at him.

"What was that, sorcerer?" Felix growled, clearly offended, taking a few threatening steps closer. Ahriman didn't back down. Felix had to learn to use his powers, and Ahriman had to force him to unlock them. Clearly, orthodox methods weren't going to work. Some psykers released their powers properly under emotional stimulus, and after the time Ahriman had wasted so far, he was willing to try that.

Ahriman turned his full body to face the Iron Warrior.

"You will fail us all. Everyone else has risen to the challenge set, except you. Everyone else is of use in this endeavour, except you. You just came here to fail your primarch and your Legion."

"Silence, witch!" Felix roared, lashing out with a powerful fist. Ahriman waited until the last minute to dodge the blow he had already seen coming. Felix was in a blind rage, his honour impugned. Another blow missed, and another one. Ahriman dodged a dozen blows before he threw him back with a single bolt of psychic energy. He was no member of the Raptora, but his telekine powers were still potent. Felix was up on his feet quickly this time, and charged at Ahriman. He let him get within striking distance, before he hurled him back with another bolt.

"You are a failure. You being here brings shame on your legion and your Primarch. You can't beat me, and you will die and help this new order. You…" Ahriman was about to continue with more insults when a bolt of electricity hit him square in the chest. He'd have expected to foresee that - either the preponderance of eldar psykers was drowning his foresight out more than he had thought, or this had been an improbable shot. Ahriman managed to remain standing, if only because his innate training warded off some of the power of the attack. When the electric discharge, Ahriman saw his brother's eyes blazing a pale blue. The air in the chamber was quickly growing cold. Ahriman smiled under his helm. He lashed out with a strike of his own. Felix was just beginning to tap into the full scope of his powers, and Ahriman was a master psyker. Whatever their physical abilities, this was always going to be a one-sided battle.

Felix threw up a wall of telekine energy in front of him. The sparks splashed off and scarred the beautiful wraithbone walls. Ahriman went to raise his hand to cast another spell, when his arm froze. It became an exertion to simply move his neck. Felix's fist was clenched, sealing Ahriman's armour in place. The electric blue eyes sparked with triumph.

"Not so powerful, are you?" Felix said condescendingly, cocking his head like a bird watching its prey. Ahriman smiled. He couldn't move much inside his armour, but his lips could still budge. Felix hurled another bolt of electricity, but Ahriman spoke a ward around himself. Ahriman became clothed in light at the electricity washed over his circular shield of protection. Felix grated his teeth, pouring more and more energy into his bolt. He was unable to maintain two effects simultaneously, and Ahriman felt his arms become free to move again.

Even as he held up his barrier with considerable effort, Ahriman saw, in washed-out glimpses, that Felix was going to fry himself just to try and beat him. He needed to end this conflict. Ahriman strained as he bent his shimmering ward from a convex shape to a concave one and forced it closer to Felix. It advanced, step by step, until it met Felix's outstretched hand from whence power poured. Power and ward met in a violent explosion, and both flashed out of existence. Both Astartes were breathing heavily, and Ahriman was drenched in sweat. Felix swayed slightly, then dropped to his hands and knees, panting from exhaustion.

"Now, you are trying," Ahriman said with an edge of glee and a smirk on his lips, before lying on his back and gulping in great breaths of air. "We break for an hour and then return to practice," Ahriman said with an air of finality. He sat up and looked at his cousin. "You have power, now you need to know how to control it."

Felix looked up for the floor and said, with an air of sadness, "I've become everything I hated." Ahriman had no words of comfort for him, though he briefly considered pointing out that there were far greater evils in the galaxy at present. It would not be easy for him, this journey, no matter how absurd Ahriman found the Iron Warrior's preconceptions. Suddenly, an ethereal voice broke in.

"It is a necessary evil, son of iron. You must embrace everything you ever hated to save all you ever loved." Eldrad spoke and Ahriman could not help but feel that the farseer was, in a paradoxical sense, speaking from experience. He looked at them both, and the damage they had wrought on the room they were in, for a moment before he spoke again. "The strands of fate dictate we accelerate our plans. We leave in four hours."

"For where?" Felix asked, still breathing heavily.

"A planet that orbits the great Eye, a world that the one called Lorgar left as a playground dedicated to the Ruinous Powers. I think you call it Cadia. You are to be baptised in fire and either become what we need you to be, or die. There is no other path left to us." And with that, Eldrad left, presumably to inform the others.

Felix and Ahriman looked at each other for a moment before mutually acknowledging that their time of rest was abruptly at an end. Ahriman sighed. "Time is short. I will begin teaching the Enumerations." Felix looked sceptical, unwilling to be taught any sorcerous incantations but also realising he had given up the last of his opportunity to object. Both Astartes sat cross-legged opposite each other, the master ready to instruct the pupil for his own safety.

As Ahriman started the introduction he attempted to see, once again, what sort of training the eldar had in mind. Even with the interference from Ulthwe, it should have been a feat well within his abilities.

But once again, he saw only a void bleached white.


	6. Chapter Five: Valeo

_He landed in a swirl of dust, having just fallen from a great height. His ceramite knee left a crater in the earth as he landed on one knee, one leg and one hand outstretched. The ground was a blood red. He thought, at first, that it was because of iron in the soil, but his advanced sensory glands told him it was not so. The hue was all wrong. It was more than just strange colours, for as he scraped his fingers to dig in deeper to the soil, red water welled up in the indentations those fingers made. No - not red water. Blood. The earth bled as he peeled away the soil like a scab. He looked up, and the sky was a maddening cacophony of unreal colours. Blues, purples, reds, and others besides, shades that should not have been possible to see with the human eye, all swirling into an elliptical vortex... and a strange silver spark, pulsing without quite fading into the outlying madness, slowly being eclipsed by the unimaginable tides. He felt as if the colours, all of them, formed an eye. The open eye, always watching._

 _The earth began to tremble with the sound of thousands of footsteps in unison. He could not see them, but walked towards the sound, intending to discover the source. He walked to the peak of a hill, looking out from behind an outcrop of red sandstone to conceal himself, and saw the reason the ground trembled. A warband, at least a thousand strong, walked through the valley, brandishing weapons seemingly forged in all the hells of legend. The cohort's armour and arms were drenched in blood, fading from fresh vitae into dried brown hues. Their armour resembled brass in colour. Many of the warriors bore mutations such as horns or claws, although wings sprouted from the backs of the most prominent figures._

 _Abruptly the band or warriors stopped and turned in unison to face him. He was bemused until he heard an unearthly roar from beside him. A horrific amalgamation of man and monster stood, too close for him to not have noticed. His head sprouted tusks that gave him a boar like appearance, his mouth was lined with shark-teeth, and his muscles were warped beyond their natural proportions such that he barely fit in the colossal suit of armour which he wore. Many skulls, human and other, were hung on tethers of tanned flesh from barbaric hooks all over his armour. He drew a two-handed black sword which screamed with psychic torment and was engraved with blazing writhing script. In a loud voice, he called to his warriors, "For the Pantheon! For the Emperor!" The warriors below returned the cry. Slowly, the commander turned his head to face him. His eyes blazed with a wild hungry fire, but he still recognised them. Even as the flames seemed to leap out and pull him into the eyes of the brass-armored warrior, he recognised them as his own._

* * *

Balsar heaved himself up as he was torn from the dream state he was in. His body was drenched in sweat. He sat upright and panted to regain his breath. As his breathing returned to normal, Guryoi entered his room. The Luna Wolf took a pause as Balsar stood up and splashed his face with water from a basin in the quarters the eldar had given him. "Bad dream, brother," Balsar said as the cool water dripped off his face.

"Can you be certain it was just a dream?" Serapis asked, knowing that dreams were rarely just dreams for ones such as them.

"No," was the cool remark from the Blood Angel. Guryoi sighed.

"Well, you will have to ponder it while we travel."

Balsar turned to face his cousin. "We are leaving?"

"Aye, the Farseer says we must move quickly. Events elsewhere drive the trails we must follow faster than anticipated." Balsar nodded in understanding. "Malcador is dead." Serapis added a moment later.

"The Regent? How?"

"I don't know. His presence was great in the warp. Eldrad said he felt him die. I noticed a background flare in my mind, but did not realise it was him." Balsar realised he must have been in the dream when this happened.

They all quickly donned their armour and reported to the main hangar. The eight psykers stood at attention, not saying anything. This was not a moment for small talk or idle conversation: each of them could feel the air of foreboding. Balsar could feel something had shifted in Felix, but did not ask. After a few moments, Eldrad appeared, flanked by several other seers with a table covered with a thin cloth. "Astartes, time is of the essence, so I will make this brief. We are sending you to a world fully under the sway of the Pantheon, the Four Gods of Chaos. We will come for you in several months. Your task is thus: you must remain alive, sane and pure. None of these will be easy, and you may not succeed. But you are not without weapons. Your most powerful ones are and will remain your own gifts. But, should those not prove enough, we offer you these." The sheet was removed by the eldar to reveal beautifully crafted weapons.

They presented weapons to each according to his preference, without words but - given the psychic song of the wraithbone around them - not without communication. To Kastix they granted a modified Warp Spider's warp-jump pack and two short swords which seemed to move quicker with every test slash Kastix swung. They gave Ahriman a singing spear, resized to fit his Astartes hands. Umojen and Rubio received double-handed blades, each a twin of the other. Felix simply received his hammer back to him, but with some obvious modifications. The stoic warrior nodded in appreciation, which was practically a bow considering how he had been when he first arrived. One of the seers approached Balsar with a kind of harness with mechanical wings fitted and a scimitar like blade. "We have heard your father is an angel and so fashioned them in his likeness, Angelson," the eldar said. Balsar put the harness on, and felt the wings become part of his power armour, like they had always been there. He exercised them, so that he hovered for a second before touching back down. Then he hovered for a bit longer, and then started to hover for a minute or so. It felt so natural. Was this how his Primarch felt? Or was it even greater than this?

As the giving of weapons came to a close, each Space Marine bore a blade or staff of some sorts, and their bolters had been refitted to sit on their forarms. "We have loaded up our transport with all the munitions from your craft. You must be gone. Be strong, Astartes. Be strong for us all," Eldrad said with the most genuine tone of fear Balsar had ever heard him use. With that, they all boarded the eldar craft in silence. They each took a seat as the craft lifted off and headed towards one of the eldar's Webway portal. Rubio broke the silence with a heavy sigh.

"So, here's where it begins. Or ends."

"Aye, here is the crossroads where we must prove our mettle," Kastix nodded in agreement.

"We will not disappoint our lords. We will become everything they need us to be. All of us," Ahriman asserted, speaking with a confidence that only someone who had gazed into the future since his youth could possess. Balsar wondered to what extent that confidence was feigned. If Ahriman had indeed seen what they would find, much less what they would become, he had not shared it with the others.

Felix grunted. "For Perturabo and the Imperial truth!" he declared with a powerful tone, placing his hand in the gap between them all.

Umojen placed his hand on top of his cousin's. "For Guilliman and the Imperial truth!"

"For Corax and the Imperial truth!"

"For Guilliman and the Imperial truth!"

"For Magnus and the Imperial truth!"

"For Jaghatai and the Imperial truth!"

"For Horus and the Imperial truth!"

"For Sanguinius and the Imperial truth!"

For several hours they travelled on the Eldar's strange ship, only each other for company. Whereas their first journey together had been awkward and full of tension, this one was easy and comfortable. The Astartes discussed battle plans, as well as the underlying hypotheses of who or what they would face. Most were certain they would face Astartes, but all were tentative to mention it. Felix and Ahriman spent a great deal of time in conversation, running through rituals and protections for the former to use in the imminent battle. When they finally fell out of the Webway not far from Cadia, though, all conversation ceased as each Astarte was shocked into silence by the sight of it.

"What is that?" Rubio asked as he recovered first.

"All kinds of hell I didn't think existed anymore," Ahriman said in reply. The planet was a shifting mass of several different hues of colour, none of which were normal for terrestrial worlds. Some regions were a deep red, others a sickle yellow, other still were just conglomerations of random colours which were somewhat painful to look at. The planet bore scars that made it look like the very mantle of the earth had been smote by some colossal sword. And behind it all was a bleeding tear in reality in the shape of a baleful eye.

The open eye, always watching.

Felix looked at it with internalized hate, as if it was an old archenemy he had only just remembered the existence of, while Targutai's rage was more like that of an Arbite who had just discovered a nest of criminals. Ahriman's eyes were closed, and Balsar supposed the son of Magnus was trying to discern the future instead of focusing further on the present. Rubio and Umojen were filled with terror and awe in equal parts. Kastix was intently not looking at the Warp storm, but rather mentally tracing fronts of battle on the planet's surface.

Serapis Guryoi's hand was on the Blood Angel's shoulder. "Balsar?" the Luna Wolf asked. "What is it?"

Balsar could not reply, his jaws locked with the memory of his dream. He knew, now, with a certainty impossible to obtain by material means, that he had seen in that dream what would happen to him if he failed on Cadia's surface.

But he also knew another facet, one that disturbed him far more, from the beginning of his dream-vision.

* * *

 _He walked along a narrow ledge that led to a castle of white stone, a fortress in ivory and marble rising from the cliffside in front of him, almost like a bubble stuck to the massif's side. It was a hard road to keep one's footing on, even for an Astarte, especially with the rain that seemed to have covered the walkway during the night before. It was a slick covering, more oil than water, though he was hard-pressed to understand why. It was not as if this was a Mechanicum world. Although, looking around himself, he found few clues as to what sort of planet he was on. There was only the mountainside he was following, and the destination, and the sky he could not look up to see. The rest... the rest did not matter, not yet._

 _Then, thunder. In a blink of his eye, the parts of the ledge before and behind him were gone, a pair of avalanches sweeping them away in a heartbeat. There was only sheer cliff above and below him. The drop was... perhaps survivable. There was no alternative... no, perhaps he could climb, though to where? He knew the castle was unreachable, now. The builders had clearly not installed more than one -_

 _And the third avalanche hit, taking the decision out of his hands, and he was tumbling into the void below._

 _He landed in a swirl of dust._


	7. Chapter Six: Tentationem

The transport carrier they had originally come to the eldar fleet in was the same craft they used to leave the ship which had brought them thus far. They were alone.

Serapis reflected on what awaited them. Whatever was down on the planet's surface had the eldar spooked, even moreso than the Astartes themselves. They had bluntly refused to even enter the planet's atmosphere with their craft. As such, all the supplies had been loaded onto the small inconspicuous craft his primarch had sent them off in. Serapis caressed the length of the great staff the eldar had gifted to him. He had not yet put on his helmet, preferring his first impression to be his eyes'. His short cut brown hair was his own as it had always been, but his face had been assaulted by the gene-tech wrought in him and made him look like his primarch. He was a Son of Horus and he was proud of it. He was proud, too, that he had been picked from his entire legion to represent them here, to forge a new brotherhood to stand against the madness which faced them. Balsar's presence was a reassurance too - Serapis had first fought alongside the Blood Angel on Telkette half a century ago, and the two Librarians had forged an inter-Legion friendship that had been reinforced whenever the Ninth and Sixteenth Legions fought together. Since that day, of course, Balsar had ascended to become his Legion's Chief Librarian, so it was slightly surprising he was being made to depart from his Legion in such a manner - though not as surprising as Ahriman's presence was.

The craft rocked gently as it encountered some turbulence, which Serapis ignored. They would be landing soon enough, and so he unlocked his helmet from its magnetic locks on his thigh. He slid it over his echoing features, and then his world was coloured red. Outside the craft, unnatural winds howled and the stench of phosphor was heavy in the air. The sky was a twisting kaleidoscope of colours, several of which could not be seen anywhere but here. Dark air-borne predators circled in skies on winds too small and tattered to naturally support their weight. They paid no attention to the small metal box descending from the sky, and so the journey went unremarked for the Astartes.

Serapis was the third to crush the arid ground beneath his boots. It was a dirty brown, bordering on red. _Like a scab_ , Serapis thought to himself. He looked around. In the distance there seemed to be some sort of structure. A tower? Or a hab block, maybe? Serapis didn't even know of this world, much less of who or what was there. In the background of his hearing, he was certain that the hissing of the winds formed words, but every time he tried to listen for them they faded in his mind, like grasping for fog. There was something most unsettling about this place. He could feel a pressure on his mind, like the weight of the Immaterium was bearing in on him. He ground his teeth together beneath his helm, which was itself contributing to his fristration. Sections of his tactical read-out were just reading garbage back to him. Random numbers and off centre calibrations were frequent as he stared out of his vision slits.

A sharp noise broke all their focuses. It was the demented howl of maddened wolves. It echoed from the east and Serapis knew that it was meant for them to hear. Something had found them, and despite his void-sealed suit, Serapis shivered. Something was very wrong here.

"Ready yourselves," came Ahriman's stern voice across the vox. Serapis gripped the red leather bound haft of his stave and waited, watching the direction the howls had come. Then they came. At least twenty hulking dogs shod with scales and rising bone crests jutting from obscure angles from their heads, necks and backs, came pacing over the hills. Serapis twisted his wrist and opened his bolter's first round into the oncoming dogs. They snapped and barked at each other, their endless rows of elongated fang clattering over and over, even as the bolts came to meet them. Several struck the flanks of the beasts, but it didn't seem to hamper them. The beasts charged on.

With a thought, Serapis opened his hand and sent a gout of flame rolling forwards, wagering that a wall of psychic flame would do more damage against these…monsters, for lack of a better word. Instead, he found the opposite. His fireball should have hit one of the lead hounds dead on, but instead it simply guttered and died without touching it. Belatedly, Serapis noticed that the same thing was happening to Ahriman's bolts of lightning, Rubio's telekine blasts and Balsar's 'red spears'. Their enemies seemed to absorb the power of the warp into themselves. They were almost upon them now, their jaws snapping and their eyes burning like fires of some eternal forge.

Ahriman's spear flew in the corner of Serapis' vision, spearing a hound before flying back into his hand. Serapis gripped his stave in two hands, and rushed forwards to meet their foes.

His stave's spiked and bladed edge came up in a wide arc, crackling with destructive energy. It struck one of the beasts in the side of the head, splitting the jaws apart and knocking it aside, but not killing it. Serapis let one hand fall away from the stave and brought up his wrist to fire a succession of bolts into the skull of another oncoming hound. The craters the bolts blew in its head and side seemed the same colour as its already exposed flesh. It was like whichever madman's nightmare had forged these hounds from hell had forgotten to cover them in skin. A trio of bolts through the beast's skull, at point-blank range, was sufficient to finally put out its fiery eyes.

Before he could turn, Serapis was hit with a full body tackle by the hound whose jaw hung by only half the original tendons that had been joined to it. Although Serapis didn't notice, its claws left a gauge in his armour and paintwork, the first of many such battle-marks and the first of the paint that would eventually all be stripped just to reveal the pure metal beneath. Although none of them did or would remark upon it, this was what was happening to each of them. Their souls were being damaged and rent and all unnecessary decoration stripped away, until either only raw and brilliant purity remained, or the armour folded in on itself.

Serapis came up in a roll to face his opponent. He barely had time to register before the fell-hound dived at him again, its mouth open ready to engulf him. Serapis brought up his elbow into the beast's lower jaw with bone shattering force. The two halves of the mouth collided and each bit into the other. As the jaws continued with their original momentum after the failed crunch, Serapis spun to the side, and as the monster landed, his spiked stave came down upon its head and burst it like a ripe fruit. The flesh seemed to slough off and decay rapidly as it died, in moments being reduced to an ectoplasmic puddle on the ground.

Serapis noticed that Balsar was facing three dogs at once, each of them snarling and hissing, Balsar twisted about his waist, watching one or two at a time. On some unheard signal, all three pounced at him at once, certain he could not evade them all. They were wrong. His monofilament wings vibrated furiously and Balsar was propelled into the air. Not yet having the confidence to fly as his father had his entire life, he let gravity bring him back to the planet. His crushing weight broke the spine of one of the flesh hounds; his sword sunk deep into the skull of another, but for an instant became lodged there. The third, sensing an opportunity, went to pounce but never made it. Serapis' stave connected with the underside of its belly and tore a mortal wound through it. Its entrails flopped out as it was battered aside. Still it tried to stand, determined to fight on, only to be met by the barrels of Serapis and Balsar's boltguns.

More and more died in the following moments. What had first started out as a fight where the Astartes were out-numbered was quickly turning into a massacre of the beasts. Their prime agent was fear and strength, and against normal humans they would have found themselves the victors. But the Astartes were made to know no fear and had gazed into the warp long enough to not be shocked by what it vomited out. The Astartes' strength, too, was easily a match for these hell dogs. The last one was surrounded by all eight warriors and summarily executed with a decisive blow to its skull.

A brief moment of calm and silence washed over the Astartes as they stared at one another. None of them had sustained any real injuries, but scratches on their armour showed where the beasts had at least landed blows. "We need to keep moving," Ahriman finally said. He looked up at the group. "These are void spawn, and just our being here will draw them to us."

"We need a better position to defend from. If more come for us, we'll need more than just our strength to beat them," Felix added, everyone nodding in agreement.

"I propose a theoretical…" Umojen interjected "…that mountain over there cannot be more than a few hours away. Six of us will continue to the mountain on foot, moving less detectably. The other two will take the transport and the remaining supplies, conceal it in the mountains, and establish a base of opperations. When we have a perimeter established, we will vox exact coordinates."

"Why don't we all just take the transport?" Targutai offered.

"Because," Serapis joined in, realising the thought behind Umojen's plan, "our souls act like flares for these warp creatures to follow, as Ahzek said. If only two go in the transport, it has a better chance of remaining undetected." Serapis looked towards Umojen to confirm he was correct, and the battle helm of the Ultramarine nodded up and down.

The White Scar seemed convinced and with no further interjections Umojen continued.

"So is my theoretical approved?" The other members of the group nodded.

"Me and you will take the transport," Felix said with an air of finality. No one here held any authority over the others, but if anyone was going to be able to establish a perimeter, Felix would; and so no one objected. Umojen and Felix entered the transport and it took off, speeding ahead of them to the mountain they would make into their home for the coming days and weeks. The rest broke into a run towards their destination. Serapis was certain that they would not make it there unchallenged, but he was equally sure that Felix and Umojen's journey would not be plain sailing either.

Serapis could not help but wonder what would befall them over the coming three months they were scheduled to spend here, what trials they would face. He realised that they were totally alone down here. There was no fleet in orbit ready to assist, no battle brothers to reinforce them. There was nothing and no one. Just them against what might well be an entire planet which hated them. His grim expression was hidden by his battle helm as he ran with his cousins towards what they hoped would be relative safety….

* * *

Three months after he had first met the eight who had been chosen, Eldrad Ulthran stood between ringing spires. The Exodites had allowed him to visit the shrine as part on the pact they were building, of assistance in the escalating war - a war whose full implications the Farseer did not wish to consider, but did anyway.

"The Astartes on Cadia," Ranel noted to his superior, "you had planned to retrieve them by this time, had you not?"

"I had," Eldrad replied, "but fate is clear, the time is not yet."

He did not state his reasoning, apart from precognition, nor did he say what the Astartes were actually doing on Cadia.

For Eldrad Ulthran was not in the habit of stating what he did not know.

* * *

Six months after the Astartes had departed for Cadia, Erikon Gaius looked at the tactical display for the battle of Carenn in frustration.

"Theoretical:" he noted, "this defense would be significantly less impossible with Rubio's skills."

He did not show any emotion in his voice save a slight tinge of bitter frustration, yet if his helmet had not been on, anyone who looked into his eyes would have been able to see the worry - or, perhaps, even grief - the Ultramarine captain was feeling for his subordinate and friend.

* * *

One Terran year after he had bid farewell to Serapis Guryoi and the others, Horus Lupercal thought back, once more, to the Librarians he had sent to an unknown fate. It was not a time for remembrance, for the Council of Catachan was in escalating swing and it would soon be time for him to resume meeting various functionaries; but Horus could scarce prevent a mood such as this.

The Eldar had assured him the training had not yet ended. They had not stated that the eight Astartes he had let go were all safe. And Horus wondered, again, at the decision to ally with xenos. At whether eldar could ever be trusted.

And at the knowledge that he had not, in truth, had a choice. Perhaps on the nature of the gambit... but not on its magnitude.

* * *

A wheel turned. A world turned. The galaxy turned, with its stars' revolving motion - impossibly slow in time, yet so vast in space that the stars' velocity in their paths around the galactic core was blindingly quick.

A page turned.

A hand reached out of a moving avalanche, and grasped -


	8. Chapter Seven: Renovamen

_He saw the mountain again. He kept going back there. The mountain that ate men. How great had his folly been then, to think a mortal being could master the Warp? It was like a man believing he could master the oceans. And, perhaps, therein had been the problem. Man had indeed mastered the oceans, the continents, the skies. When control of its own home had bored it, humanity had stretched out its myriad possessive claws into the heavens and pulled them from orbit. Nothing had been or was beyond humans' reach. And since nothing they could see had been, they had assumed that nothing ever would.  
_

 _But it was not so. Eternal and infinite beings had watched them since the stars were first formed. They knew their ways and could find every one of man's microscopic missteps. As Man had pulled more into his grasp, he had opened his bosom for the poisoned knife to stab into his heart. And the knife fell true, the poison delivered quickly and efficiently to every vessel in the body. Humanity as a race had been poisoned, and even now its body fought to repel that venom in every part of its body.  
_

 _A desperate anti-venom had been developed, being refined even now. But it was painful to not be able to see the progress of it. There was no guarantee that anything, even this most desperate of measures would work, could stop man's demise now. For the hour could well be too late to change the fate of humanity...  
_

* * *

Magnus worried, sometimes, at how much of Malcador was leaking into his meditative thoughts. Or was it, rather, the reverse? Was it his own fears and memories that were leaking into the echo of Malcador? As he slowly opened his eyes, leaving the Enumerations behind, he found it as easy as ever to shed the skin of the Sigillite's humility (albeit Magnus had to admit that Malcador's skepticism of psychic powers, while not a perspective Magnus could agree with, was more justified than he had once thought); but there was nowhere the imprint of the Lord of Terra could hide from Magnus's thoughts.

Captain Amon was standing quietly in the doorway of his chambers. "I did not wish to disturb your meditations, lord," he said in response to Magnus's glance.

"Always so formal, Amon," Magnus said as he hoisted himself off the ground. His limbs were impotent, but within the psycho-conductive network of his throne, Magnus's powers allowed him to levitate and move from place to place with almost as much freedom as he had when his legs still worked, with only the slightest exertion of will. "Why have you come at this late hour, my son?"

"It's the astropaths, my lord. They have received a message."

"Horus?"

"No, my lord."

"Another of my brothers?"

"Not likely."

"The eldar at last?"

"Possible, but again not likely." Magnus's brow furrowed. If it was none of his brothers nor the eldar, and it seemed to trouble Amon greatly, Magnus wondered what was so special about this message.

"What is the message, Amon?" Magnus said, his voice still calm despite his growing impatience. Amon did not speak for a moment, clearly thinking how to best phrase his response.

"That's why I came to you, my lord. It seems we cannot get the message out of them." Magnus stared inquisitively at Amon, so he continued. "The choir know that they received a message, but none of them can remember who it is from or where, or what the message contains; and every attempt by… _other_ adepts to pull the information from their minds has failed." So many of his own sons, including Amon by his inflection, had tried to obtain the information. And having all failed, they had come to him.

Magnus sighed. Not out of loathing or annoyance, but actually out of pleasure. He enjoyed mental exercises, and with all the mental strains he bore in silence it would be good to devote himself to a task, even if it was only brief. "Well, I guess we should make our way to the choir room, then."

"No need, my lord. I had the choir brought here." Amon said as he beckoned in the Astropaths indentured to the Thousand Sons. Magnus chuckled: Amon had known he would not resist a chance to exercise his powers. At least that part of him was not crippled.

The Astropathic choir shuffled in. It always struck Magnus as ironic that, where the powers of the warp had made him and his legion strong, these men and women were withered and made fragile by holding such powers. It was a burden that they bore, and Magnus respected that they bore it willingly. "Well, now. Let's see if we can't…" Magnus never finished his sentence. At the sound of his voice, the whole choir in unison snapped to attention, their backs arched, and their mouths locked open. Amon's weapon was instantly in his hand, but Magnus shook his head. Cool blue vapour coiled out of the mouths of the Astropaths gathered, and started to coalesce above their head.

At first the vapour only formed into an abstract ball which hung in the centre of Magnus's chamber. Then features started to push themselves out of the cloud, forming a face familiar to Magnus's mind. One he had not seen in many months. "Ahzek?" Magnus whispered with an air of trepidation. This sorcery was unseen, even to Magnus's trained mind.

"Lord Magnus. I am Khyron, First of the Eight Swords. I request your, and any other legion's, available aid to be sent to us immediately. Foremost we require Apothecaries and gene-seed. There is work to be done."

"My son, where are you?" Magnus implored, thrilled at seeing his son again. Even through this faint mirror, the Astarte that had been his first captain looked changed. Almost as if he was not the same man at all.

"All will be explained, my lord. Ask the Eldar where to find us. Nam symbolum."

With that, the vapour diffused into the air. The astropaths returned to their natural positions, their bodies sore from being contorted in delivering the message. Amon approached Magnus, somewhat sheepishly. "My lord, what was that?"

"A summons - and a display of power, my son. The likes of which I would not have thought even Ahzek Ahriman was capable of."

"So what do we do now?"

"Now…" Magnus mused "…now we answer the call. Send for Horus and Eldrad. They must hear of this." Amon bowed and left to bring his uncle and the eldar seer before his lord.

Magnus dismissed the Astropaths and returned to his communion with the echo of Malcador. Ahriman's sending was powerful, just as he had told Amon. But the truth was, Magnus did not know how powerful. A non-astropath being able to commune with an astropath was rare enough. To commandeer an entire choir to deliver a simple message and be able to block it from all but a certain individual was a feat of unimaginable skill and power - a feat made doubly impressive because Ahriman was not Athanaea.

Certainly, the winds of change were blowing. Blowing on a scale that Magnus had not, previously, fully realized.

Magnus smiled, noting in the back of his mind that - fears of contamination aside - Malcador would never have done so, nor even his father when he had been pure. The universe was giving them problems unlike any that had been witnessed in the history of humanity.

But it was allowing solutions unlike any before, too.


	9. Chapter Eight: Veritatem

Eldrad stood, if for only a moment, outside the Cyclops's chambers before entering. He had been abruptly summoned from his duties elsewhere to come meet with this sorcerer-king, without having been told why. At best, relations with these mon-keigh were strained, but the climate of open warfare - for all that it enforced alliance - also had a way of fraying tempers further. He had not been back here in some time, not since he had taken the eight from the fleet to be tested. He had heard that the Battle-King of Ultramar was fighting his own war against the legion of She-Who-Thirsts, knew that Horus would not wait much longer before he departed to another war of his own. And yet this was a nexus of possibilities that caused Eldrad some trepidation, for he had seen clearly that this would be a conversation both difficult and risky, but not why.

The moment of contemplation, of hesitation, passed. Eldrad took a deep breath and composed himself before he pushed the great doors open wide.

Horus was already there, talking with Magnus. The conversation, however, halted abruptly when Eldrad walked in, not a good sign to start a meeting like this. Magnus's eyes remained impassive, but there was a weight of something unvoiced behind them. By comparison, Horus's blazed with the fires of a thousand suns. "Welcome, Eldrad," Magnus spoke, trying to ease the tension. "How are the men we sent to you?" Eldrad could feel that was a loaded question. As the seconds passed between the question being asked and his answer, Eldrad could feel Horus' eyes boring into him.

Eldrad swallowed again. His honest reply was he did not know. He had not seen or spoken to them since they had been left on Cadia. They could be dead, or corrupted, or triumphant. "They fare as expected, Lord Magnus," Eldrad finally replied. Now Horus started to pace the room like a caged hound, his eyes permanently tracking the Farseer. Magnus simply nodded.

"As an aside: how do the eldar communicate with each other?" This question, Eldrad was not expecting, nor did he know what had caused Magnus to ask it.

Finally Horus spoke. "What my brother means to ask is: are your people in the habit of hijacking other persons and using them as puppets to communicate through?" Magnus shot Horus a look of something between vague annoyance and a plea for patience. "Brother, we have a war to win. We cannot ask peripheral questions when we are only interested in the answer to one," Horus said in retort to the unvoiced words.

"No, Lord Horus. The eldar don't communicate like that…."

Eldrad was about to continue when Horus cut him off again. "Then why is it that Magnus has received a communication of that sort from a man who wears Ahriman's face, but professes not to be him?" Eldrad was starting to see why he had been called here. The Primarchs were concerned for their sons. Still, he had no answer for them.

"I don't know, Horus."

Horus snorted, out of indignation rather than amusement. "So, you are supposed to be training them to be warriors against my father and the powers he has aligned himself with, and you don't know how they have acquired such knowledge." Eldrad could feel the heavy weight of Horus's personality bearing down on him. Even though he was older than Horus by a fair amount, the primarch was intimidating when roused.

Now Magnus spoke again, his voice having the slightest undertones of malice. "How do you not know?"

"Magnus…" Eldrad began, realising that whereas Horus's anger was kept on a leash and under control, Magnus had tried to bury his too deep and now it was boiling over, "…we had to test them. We had to be sure that they could be trusted with the lore of Chaos."

"What have you done with my son?" Magnus bellowed, small arcs of ethereal lightning tracing themselves over his body. Eldrad dropped his façade, realising that at this point any modicum of deceit would only inflame the primarch of the Thousand Sons.

"He is on Cadia, a planet which lies just on the edge of the Eye of Terror. We left them there some time ago and haven't had any contact with them."

To his credit, Magnus remained calm for several seconds. Then the storm broke. Eldrad just had time to bring a ward up before a telekine blast slammed into him. The psychic power the primarch possessed seemed to have only been strengthened by his disablement. Eldrad skidded across the room as Magnus's attack continued.

"MAGNUS!" Horus bellowed, his voice carrying over the crackling of warp-lightning and the incoherent bellows of the enraged Cyclops. To Eldrad's relief, the primarch's attack relented.

"He abandoned our sons, Horus! He left them to die. The xenos bastard…"

"Did what he needed to. Better that they die than be used against us."

"He's my son, Horus; you can't truly expect me to be calm about this."

"I have a son with them too. So do Sanguinius and Guilliman and Corax. We have all invested our best psykers."

Magnus's rage subsided, slowly, civility reasserting itself. The Crimson King's fury had been true, but it was only a veneer all the same, as if an icy crust over a cold ocean. Magnus was not capable of quite the depth of simmering rage that Horus was.

Eldrad stood for a moment and then spoke. "Thank you, my Lord…"

"Don't speak, Seer!" Horus snapped, his calm soothing voice which had just calmed Magnus replaced with a voice which sounded like the rolling of thunder. "I haven't worked out what I am going to do with you yet. You told us nothing about what you were planning or what this 'training' consists of. You were reckless with some of the best marines we have, and experienced soldiers are not something we have in abundance." Horus sighed, exasperated - but Eldrad knew that he had to tread carefully from here.

Everyone was quiet for the next few moments, though, Horus unwilling to press the issue. Eldrad felt the tension slowly relax and risked speaking again. "What did Ahriman say?"

Magnus looked up. "He called himself Khyron, and he said that we should come find him and bring Apothecaries with gene-seed." Eldrad raised his eyebrow. "He said he would explain when we arrived."

"We?" Eldrad queried.

Horus chuckled. "Oh yes. You and Magnus's equerry, Amon, are taking a strike cruiser, the _Imohtek_ , to Cadia to bring our weapons back and give them all assistance they require." Eldrad nodded, and Horus turned to leave his brother and the Seer alone.

"One last thing, my lord?" Horus stopped and looked over his massive shoulders. "If they have fallen, you know what will happen, do you not?" Horus nodded and left the two psykers alone. Magnus glared at Eldrad, no longer raging at Eldrad but far from forgiving him. Eldrad bowed briefly and left for the hangar to travel to the awaiting cruiser, which was waiting to see the fruits of his people's labour.

As Eldrad crossed the threshold out of the room Magnus let slip a brief growl, frustration boiling over. "Pray for your sake that you have not wasted their lives."

"I already do, for we will need them if we are to weather the coming storm." Magnus nodded despite himself, and then the Crimson King was once more left alone with his thoughts. Left to ponder what might have become of his son.


	10. Chapter Nine: Revenio

Khyron sat cross-legged, his mind cast into the aether. In his previous life he had viewed it as a great ocean, one teeming with both benign entities and many predators, but ultimately an ecosystem which could be mastered like any other. One which humanity could explore the depths of and know everything that dwelt within. But his time on this planet had taught him to reconsider this notion. The warp was not an ocean, nor any other knowable thing. It was, for one, a realm in a constant state of shifting, warping, changing. Nothing was ever constant there. But above all, everything was a lie there. There was no truth to be found within the warp. There was knowledge, but the Gods which dwelt there used that knowledge to usurp the truth. They sat on their perverted thrones plotting the damnation of humanity; plotting its descent into chaos.

Over his time here, he had died and been reborn. He had died one piece at a time. First, his hubris died. Such a thing would have been his downfall, and it almost was. He had been forced to purge his arrogance from his mind. Then his thirst for knowledge. That had been difficult to rid himself of. He had never thought it a problem, but Chaos was insidious. It had used his healthy desire and appreciation for all knowledge to feed him and stuff him like a glutton until he was bloated and useless and easy to destroy. The others had died slowly too. Valdar and Pelenas had been forced to cast their unwavering loyalty to a father they once had aside. Now they were only loyal to the Brotherhood and the Creed, and everyone else was never above suspicion. Drystann had been forced to overcome his own bloodlust, lest it destroy him. Geronitan's kindness and humanity had to be put to death. They had all died and nothing remained of the men they had once been. But that was necessary. For while they had died in pieces, they had been reborn in one great swoop, becoming something greater. Something the war needed. They might have forgotten who they were, but they had not forgotten their purpose.

There had been many times when they had come close to faltering. Most were in the first phase of their time on this Warp-infested planet. When they had been alone and wondering if they would ever be rescued. What had felt like months had passed with no respite from the horrors that dwelt on this planet and not contact save each other. Tempers had frayed and the Brotherhood, although it was not yet the Brotherhood yet, had almost split in its infancy. Then they had found the human settlements, and that had almost been the final nail in the coffin. Most of the humans that dwelt here were corrupted by Chaos and served the Dark Gods with every base depravity that existed. Khyron had thought then something he was certain that they had all considered; could humanity ever resist Chaos? At that moment, it had felt like they were staring into the inevitable outcome of human history. They had all considered laying down their arms and giving in to fate.

Then they had found the humans. What they had not realised was that Lorgar had been here before them. Many of the populace had fallen to his sway, and more still were already tainted by the powers that manifested here. But a small group of humans had hidden away. They alone, in a world gone mad, could see that the Chaos Gods brought nothing but ruin and despair. There was no hope or truth under their gaze, only madness and chaos. They had embraced the broken Astartes with joy. They saw these dull armoured warriors as their saviours. But the truth that the Brotherhood acknowledged was that these simple mortals were _their_ saviours. They had nurtured their faith in humanity and each other, and shown them that that was their greatest weapon. Faith was anathema to these denizens of the warp. And so, they had written the Creed, the Word of Humanity. It was a code to live and die by and it gave them faith. In exchange, the Brotherhood had helped these humans to destroy those who had sold their souls to the Dark Gods and trained them to succeed them.

Khyron did not know if this was what those who had sent him and his brothers here had intended, nor whether they would have agreed with their conclusions. But they had not gone through this crucible, and the Brotherhood had.

The Brotherhood had cast a net of warp energy around their encampment. To the naked eye, nothing existed. But to one who could see through the warp, thousands of tiny strands of invisible thoughts and power stretched out of kilometres. Anything or anyone trying to move against them would find a prepared enemy. Not that anyone had challenged them in a while. Well, some still tried, the most foolhardy of daemons; usually they were of the Blood God himself, but sometimes the most supremely arrogant servants of the other warp powers would challenge them. Such was life on the blasted wastelands of this world.

Khyron sat in the centre of this web like a spider, waiting for anything to disturb his nest. Suddenly, the strands underneath him shook. Khyron spread his consciousness along the threads, finding where they had been triggered. He couldn't find a point of origin. The strands were vibrating, but it was not from one point. It was the whole of the threads, vibrating at the same time as if hit by a wave. _A wave._ Khyron's heart rate accelerated. He had sent his message to a man only remembered as the Cyclops, but he had wondered if it would ever be answered. If it was the Old Ones, his web would not have felt their entrance, for their ships did not disturb the warp like humanity's craft did. It had to be them. No one else had any reason being here. Khyron's eyes snapped open, and he stood up quickly. He had to tell the others. They had been heard.

* * *

"My lord Amon, we have entered the orbit of the world designated 'Cadia'. Your instructions?" The shipmaster of the _Imohtek_ asked Amon. Amon stood passively behind the captain's command throne.

"Topographical scan of the planet." Amon said. It was phrased as a statement and he expected a swift response. Several of the other humans at the many consoles of the ship tapped furiously and brought up a 3-D rendering of the planet.

"There appears to be several small settlements, my lord. Do we know where we will find Lord Ahzek and the others?" the human called Phael asked. He was a good man and had served the Fifteenth Legion with consistent excellence, even through the madness of Prospero.

Amon turned to the eldar seer as his side. He did not like the xeno. Eldrad had left his brother on the forsaken world and did not seem repentant in the slightest. But Amon could not deny the seer's power, and his father had bade him to take him along. "Do you feel that?" Amon said.

"Yes," Eldrad said, staring straight ahead. He knew exactly what the son of the Cyclops was talking about. There was a form of psychic beacon calling from the planet. It spoke no words, and conveyed nothing, it simply existed as a waypoint in and of itself. Amon nodded in assent.

"Master of the Deck…" Amon spoke into the vox "…have two Thunderhawk transports prepared for launch immediately." The captain of the Thousand Sons turned to the eldar. "We are leaving."

"And if it's a trap?"

"We are leaving with weaponry and three squads of my finest men," Amon said, leaving the bridge and expecting Eldrad to follow.

"So barbaric," Eldrad muttered sub-audibly, although the Astarte heard him. In truth, he was more worried that three squads might not be enough against the forces of the Ruinous Powers.

* * *

Within five minutes, the Thousand Sons were already penetrating the atmosphere of Cadia and speeding towards the encampment. It was a mis-match of ramshackle huts, but at least it resembled something human. As they came into approach, Eldrad could not help but feel that they had disturbed something, but they had moved so quickly it was impossible for him to tell what. As the Thunderhawks landed and the pristine Astartes disembarked, eight similar figures stood to great them. They were flanked by dozens of humans, all of which seemed oddly unimpressed with the arrival of these armoured giants from the skies.

Amon was shocked by the sight that greeted him. He recognised several of the marines which stood before him, but only by their faces. Their armour was scratched bare, any paintwork it once had now gone. Strangely, their armour bore no iconography, but this did not seem inflicted by battle. It was as if the armour had been designed that way. The same armour was dented and obviously patched up in several places. But it was not the armour that bore the true scars. The visible flesh of these Astartes was riven by gashes and their eyes spoke of mental scars which were as unspeakable as they were terrible.

The one that stood at the head of the group, Amon recognised first. A smile broke across the Thousand Son's face as he saw his friend, even in a state such as this. "Brother. It is good to see you!" Amon exclaimed as he rushed forward to embrace his battle-brother. For Ahriman's part, he simply stood still even at the man he had once known wrapped his arms around him. It was a one sided embrace for a while, until Ahriman tentatively returned it.

"It is good to see another defender of the Imperial truth." Khyron said as the Astarte who seemed convinced they had known each other released him.

"Ahriman? We are more than fellow defenders…" The man stared, his eyes perplexed and imploring. "…We are cut from the same cloth. Both Sons of Prospero." Khyron sighed. He had not realised that many would mistake him for someone else.

"I'm afraid we are not," Khyron spoke flatly. The Astarte went to speak, but the xenos Khyron remembered to be Eldar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Be still, Amon; I'm sure all will be explained in due course," Eldrad spoke.

"Indeed. I believe formal introductions are in order. I am Khyron, First of the Eight Swords and Master of the Sharpest Sword Blade."

"I am Valdar, Second of the Eight Swords and Master of the Watcher Blade."

"I am Pelenas, Third of the Eight Swords and Master of the Long Sword Blade."

"I am Dhask, Fourth of the Eight Swords and Master of the Banisher Blade."

"I am Geronitan, Fifth of the Eight Swords and Master of the Hidden Sword Blade."

"I am Arno, Sixth of the Eight Swords and Master of the Healer Blade."

"I am Drystann, Seventh of the Eight Swords and Master of the Purifying Flame Blade."

"I am Ordan, Eighth of the Eight Swords and Master of the Shield Blade."

Eldrad watched as each of the Astartes he had left to an almost certain fate stepped forward in turn; Ahriman, Umojen, Rubio, Targutai, Kastix, Guryoi, Balsar and Felix. He had known when he had left them on the planet that they would likely be corrupted or killed. So many strands of fate led to one of both of those. He had spent countless nights pouring over the runes and seer-stones trying to see if there was any alternative long before he had approached Horus with his offer. There had only been one where they had lived, and Eldrad could scarcely believe that the universe had moved in such a way as to allow these men to continue to serve. Beneath his pointed helmet, Eldrad let his mouth experience the luxury of a smile as joy washed over his insides.

And yet it was a smile tinged with a dash of uncertainty, for while he had foreseen this route, it had not been the single shining path. It had, instead, been one - not of corruption, if anything entirely the opposite - but still of death.

Khyron's expression turned from one of relative friendliness into one of open hostility in an instance. At once, his weapon was drawn, as were the weapons of his eight fellows. "Assemble the Brotherhood," Khyron called out, and Ordan and Dhask split off from the groups and roused several dozens of humans from their slumber. These men were built like initiates into the Astartes, with muscles thick and iron-forged, all bearing crude armour and weapon with marking etched over them.

"What is going on, Ahriman?" Amon demanded.

"Don't you understand, fool! We are under attack. Now ready yourselves, the Enemy comes," the one known as Drystann snapped. His once angelic face had been horribly marred down one side and a thick ropey scar wound it's was from his temple until it disappeared under the collar of his armour. His eyes were flinty and spoke of a ruthless, uncompromising nature.

"Where is this enemy? There is no one here!" Amon exclaimed, exasperated. "Ahriman..." He began to implore. Surely his friend was simply jumping at shadows.

He was totally unprepared when Ahriman's hand struck him across the face. "Call me that again, and I will have your tongue! I am Khyron, you dense fool, and the Enemy _will_ be here; we need to be ready for them. Now ready your men and form the back row behind the Brotherhood!" Even as he spoke, Amon nearly bit his tongue as he used his Corvidae powers to look forwards in time. He was not sure how Ahriman had foreseen this attack as early as he had, for whoever was coming had cloaked themselves from foresight well, but by now they were so close that Amon could - just barely, if he exerted his power - catch a glimpse of the impending storm from between the concealing coils. But the so-called Khyron's behavior was no more acceptable for that. Amon straightened himself, and the man who had once been his brother stepped to within an inch of his face. For a moment they simply stared, Amon's a mix of revulsion and anger, Khyron's one of cold indifference in irritation. "Now." Khyron hissed.

"Yes…" Amon replied, and a moment later added "…sir." Battle took priority, for now, though it was certainly a... conveniently timed attack, for avoiding any sort of explanation. Khyron simply joined the humans who stood ready behind him. These must be the ones he had said he was the master of, Amon recognised. Each of the eight Astartes had a group which followed them, some larger than others. Drystann's lot, the ones they had called the Purifying Flames (Amon wondered if they were a Pyrae analogue), numbered less than twenty; they stood facing a hill, waiting for an enemy Amon still could not see, which was blurred even to his psychic sight. Indeed, there could not have been more than a hundred and fifty humans between all the groups. Amon obeyed his orders and formed up the final row behind the humans. Even as he and his men stood ready to fight, he could not help but wonder why these humans were a more sturdy bulwark than his Astartes in the eyes of his brother and cousins, and whether that was truly the reason the Eight Swords had placed the Thousand Sons where they had. These thoughts occupied his mind until he saw the tide of screaming bodies start to appear over the hill just as they had said; and then his only thought was of what kind of madness had they landed into, and of how to kill it.


	11. Chapter Ten: Primus Sanguis

Drystann stood at the head of the Brotherhood. He turned to look at the men to his left and right. Primus and Septimus stood, looking into the distance at the foe they knew very well. Each member of the Blade was named numerically in order of their induction, leaving eight Primi in total, one in each Blade; but each only responded to their Master's call. They would receive names after they had become full Astartes, and until then the Masters alone would remain named.

The Enemy came screeching over the hills. The first several rows were made up of humans who had sold themselves to the Pantheon. There were maybe a hundred of them, whose reward for their betrayal was to be branded and sent to be slaughtered like cattle. The Purifying Flames drew their swords. All of the warriors held their weapons in a position at their side, ready to swing them up and bury them in the flesh of their foes.

The Purifying Flames held their position as several of the Blades cast bolts of lightning and balls of flame into the oncoming enemy. Ordan and his Shield Blade were weaving protective wards around the Brotherhood and their 'guests' even as the spells and bolts mowed down the humans. If any had made it through, they would have met the sharp end of one of the Purifying Flames' swords; but they did not. Bodies were immolated, electrocuted or torn to pieces. A normal foe would have turned back, knowing that to continue the charge was to continue into certain death. But this was no normal foe and they were more afraid of the monstrosities behind them than the death in front of them. And so they all came and all died to a man, no more to it. The real enemy would come next.

The humans had merely been a test of strength, as both sides knew. What came over the hill would be shocking the Thousand Sons which had just joined them, but was strangely normal for the members of the Brotherhood and the solitary Eldar. Horned daemons with red, scaly skin, armed with blades which glowed with a hellish inner light as if they had just left the forge fires, ran at the warriors with wild abandon alongside giggling, lithe purple daemons with deceptively voluptuous forms and exposed breasts that sat in extreme juxtaposition to the hideous chitinous growths many sported.

Drystann could feel each Purifying Flame reach out and connect with his own soul. He would act at their conduit for their own master spell. More bolts and spells flew, but this enemy was much more resilient, and although many died, many more escaped unscathed or at least still able to fight. The Purifying Flames kept their swords in the same position they had for the last few minutes until the enemy were only twenty paces from them. "Nam symbolum!" came the war cry from Drystann's lips, to meet the woops and howls of the oncoming Enemy. The Purifying Flames advanced as one straight line, their swords still in the ready position. The enemy charged with wild glee to meet them, thinking that these rash twenty which had separated from the group would be easy to destroy.

As the head of the horde and the thin line of one Astarte and twenty humans met, the Purifying Flames swung their swords up as one and instantly scythed down twenty-one foes with precise blows. But that was not the worst damage that the strike wreaked on the wave of daemons. As the swords swung, the psychic energy of twenty of the purest souls in existence poured their energy into the one pure Astarte that led them. This purifying energy was then amplified and poured back into those it came from before being channelled out of them. So, as the swords of the Purifying Flames cut down twenty-one daemons and sent them back to the nightmare realm where they had come from, a roaring wave of pure azure flame rode onwards, engulfing the Enemy. The purifying flame burnt the very perverted essence of the foul spawn of chaos. It overwhelmed their corrupted physical form, and left nothing by still burning ecto-plasma as they were cast back into the warp. Over a hundred daemons perished and the charge faltered, struck by a grievous blow from what should have been an easy kill.

Then the rest of the Brotherhood moved.

The Purifying Flames slowed their pace by a half-step to let the others catch up, but the pressed into their foe. The bloodletters and daemonettes which remained were still a substantial number. As the rest of the Brotherhood formed up, the assault began in earnest. Drystann swung his sword in a wide arc and split two bloodletters at the waist before a daemonette lashed out at him with its chitinous claw. The flat of Drystann's blade blocked the blow before the daemonette, disoriented by the purity the beings around it, was speared through the face by the point of Primus' sword. No words of thanks passed between the two. It was not that the Master needed his first's protection, but that Primus had no other opponent for a split second and so had freed his Master.

Over the cacophony of the battle which they were embroiled in, Drystann could hear the blaring of war horns and knew what they meant before he heard the heavy tread of cavalry. The snorting of the brass juggernauts could be heard even through the din of battle, and their spiked heads impaled several of their cohorts who could not move out of the way fast enough. "Septimus! Primus! On me!" Drystann shouted as the daemonic horde separated, preferring to let the three bloodcrushers charge the Purifying Flames instead of trampling them. Drystann and his two Swords stood still with their swords raised as their foe rushed towards them. It seemed that they were content to be impaled on the horns of the juggernauts. Then, at the last moment, all three too a side step, slicing the legs out from under the beasts and sending them crashing into the dirt.

Two of the riders flew off their mounts onto waiting halberds belonging to the Long Swords. Drystann, Primus and Septimus turned their attention back to the foe which was pressing into the gap left by the Bloodcrushers.

* * *

The final rider had held fast and ridden his mount into the ground. Instead of being deterred by his dismounting, the daemon only seemed to reach a greater level of rage and blood lust. The long chains of skulls hung from his belt chattered together, and his elaborate brass armour glinted in the faux-light emanating from the Great Eye which hung in the sky - a sign that the Gods were watching. A warrior approached, clad in primitive armour, and levelled his two weapons at the herald of Khorne. A roar echoed from the daemon's throat as it jumped at the human with its Hellblade, almost as long as the man was high, raised above his head.

The downward blow was blocked by the human warrior crossing its swords over his head, although it strained his muscles. The Herald snarled, leapt back and swung at the side of the warrior. The human moved with the speed of an Astarte initiate, his biology enhanced by the biomancers of the Healer Blade, and stepped inside the blow of the Herald, blocking the blow with a downward strike of his own falchion. The human's elbow lashed out and the spiked elbow guard punched into the mouth of the Khornate daemon. It snarled, insulted that it had allowed itself to be made bleed by a mere human. The next flurries of blows from the enraged Herald were scarcely blocked by the human, and each blow blocked threatened to tear his muscles, dislocate a joint or break a bone, an unaffordable injury. Again and again the daemon struck, each time forcing the human on the defensive. "I will claim your skull for Khorne, petty human," the daemon snarled as he felt assured at his victory.

The next faint was blocked by the human, but before he could react, the daemon had used the impact of the blow to break away and slice through the out-stretched arm of the human. The daemon grinned as the human recoiled in pain. Contemptuously slowly, the Herald raised his weapon to decapitate his defeated foe. Quintus of the Long Sword Blade stared fearlessly into his executioner's burning yellow eyes even as the Hellblade sliced through his neck and sent his head rolling onto the dirt.

"Kar'xin'tila'xaz" came the shout which stunned the Herald for a moment. The calling of his true name staggered him as another human appeared to challenge him. This one was not like the last. This one knew his name and wielded power over him. The Herald tried to raise his weapon in defence, but his arms became like lead and so the block was weak. "Kar'xin'tila'xaz," the Tertius of the Banishers spoke calmly, as he continued to attack the daemon who could feel his link to material world become undone by the speaking of his true name, "I banish thee in the name of the Brotherhood and by the Creed for a hundred and one years. I send thee back to the Warp; and let it be known that Kar'xin'tila'xaz was bested by a human." The words of power the Banisher spoke sealed the fate of the daemon. The Herald's connection to the material realm was being severed and his blows became sluggish and pathetic. He could not be bested by a mere human! In a final act of desperation, the Herald lashed clumsily out at the Banisher. The blow was easily deflected, even by one not yet Astartes, and Tertius drove his sword blade through the neck of the Herald of Khorne. A thick gargling sound could be heard as the physical form of the weakened daemon collapsed and the daemon was banished into the Warp, just as had been spoken. Even as the Third Sword of the Banisher Blade sought a fresh quarry and pulled its name from the Immaterium, the battle raged on.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Dominus Mutatur

If Amon had been told about the battle he was now part of instead of seeing it with his own two eyes, he would have had difficulty believing it. The things which had charged this rag-tag band of humans had been spawned of the nightmares of a madman - and that may well have been more than a metaphor. They reeked of the Great Ocean, but seemed possessed by an intelligence and purpose that Amon had not thought could exist within those roiling currents of energy. These were not just mindless void predators, as he had encountered before, nor the pet-like beings of the sort the Thousand Sons had once bonded as tutelaries, nor even the human-like sapience that had only rarely been encountered by his legion. These were, rather, like splinters of a common thought which had birthed itself. Even for a veteran such as himself, seeing such things pushed his understanding to the limit.

But more importantly, nothing he had ever seen, even in his own legion, could prepare him for the ferocity of raw psychic power that those he had once called brother and cousins, as well as the humans they were with, now unleashed. His legion had always been steeped in Warp-power, but this was something else. At Nikaea they had been called sorcerers and heretics. But the truth that the Thousand Sons had always known, and Amon was now seeing the proof of, was that they had only accessed a fraction of the power the Warp had to offer.

As the wave of incandescent azure flame rolled out from the head of this group which seemed to refer to itself as "The Brotherhood", Amon could not stop thinking. _What the hell is happening here_ , he wondered. How could his brother and cousins, let alone mere mortals, have access to this kind of power when they had never once displayed it before? For once, he found himself on the other side of the coin as he had always been on. Now he was suspicious of those he would have, not long ago, walked into hell with - but then, Khyron had himself said that he was not Ahriman. At least he understood why he had been placed in the rear lines; but now Amon could not help but wonder what their hosts had been forced to sacrifice or trade away to acquire such power. And secretly, although he would never admit it, he wondered how he could acquire it too.

A soft breeze snapped Amon back to reality. It brought a sweet fragrance with it, and Amon knew instantly that it came from the monsters in front. He struggled to believe that such hideous monsters could be so…fragrant. Amon was certain that this had disarmed many mortals before now, and he would not be deterred by it. However, the smell continued to linger in his nose even as it penetrated through his armour, and Amon had to fight its allure.

Suddenly the cloudless sky began to darken, and Amon and the rest of the Thousand Sons looked up to see the shapes of perhaps fifty winged monsters circling overhead like vultures. "Fire on those…things!" Amon shouted, foreseeing that they would be coming at the Astartes. The Thousand Sons raised their bolters to the sky as the Furies dove towards the Brotherhood. The Pyrae and Raptora loosed lightning bolts and telekinetic strikes into the pack, even as the Pavoni and Athanaeans launched blind attacks. Several of the winged monstrosities fell or collided with their fellows and knocked both of them out of the sky. But the time the flyers banked for their scything run at the Thousand Sons, only about half remained. Even still, the sight of over twenty of the winged humanoids diving at the Thousand Sons was intimidating.

Amon drew his hequa staff and split one of these monsters in half with a perfect downward strike, assisted by his precognition. Two marines behind him fired close range bolt shots into the bodies of a few other beasts which followed. Their dead weight continued onward into the Thousand Sons and knocked two to the ground with sheer mass. Three rushed one of Amon's sergeants, a man named Ptah, and forced him down as well. On the dusty ground, their claws and beaks raked at his armour. Ptah's fists lashed out and shattered one of their arms. One of the remaining monsters drove its claws into one of the eye-pieces on Ptah's helmet, shards of visor and razor claws digging themselves into Ptah's eye. Ptah yelled and conjured fire in his hand, immolating the injured beast. It's charred corpse rolled away as the other two instantly fled a foe they had clearly under-estimated. One got away, but Ptah grabbed the other's leg and pulled it back as his stood up. One punishing blow from Ptah's fist caved in its skull, and the thing died with a whimper.

Blood dribbled down Ptah's cheek as he stood up, along with several others who had been forced to the ground in the Furies' savage dive. They had not stayed long and only eight had survived the Thousand Sons' retaliation, but two of their small contingent were injured to the point of being out of the fight, and Amon was certain that these monsters were expendable. Amon tried to assess how the battle had progressed in the brief instants they had been occupied. Heavy cavalry had joined the fray and were gouging holes into the battle-lines, which were swiftly plugged by both attackers and defenders alike. The horde that assailed them looked to be at least a thousand strong. Which made it even more amazing that this contingent of mere mortals was pushing back these aether-monsters.

"Sir," Ptah spoke, pointing to the hill line, "what in the name of Terra is that?!" Amon looked. At first, it looked as if he was witnessing one of the most majestic sunsets he had ever seen. Bright hues of the entire spectrum of colour lit up the hill line. It was chaotic but beautiful, so much so that Amon nearly missed the monstrous being from which the being the light emanated. Its ancient wings were folded behind it's back and it appeared to lean on its staff for support. The staff itself was made of knobbled wood with a giant tome, which was burning but not consumed by the fire perched on top. The thing resembled an ancient man and a giant bird at the same time. Its legs looked withered and frail; the skin which was not covered with moulting, iridescent coloured feathers was clearly wrinkled. Its twin beaked heads surveyed the battlefield. One pair of beady yellow eyes starred across the raging battlefield and met Amon's and he knew that the creature had not just seen him, but seen _into_ him.

Only the crack of bolter fire snapped Amon's attention back from the psychic effect that had held him transfixed. Ptah had given the order to fire on the creature. Bolter fire and spells flew over the heads of the combatants and streaked towards the bird-like creature. It took a moment for Amon to raise his own weapon and conjure a spell to add to the volley. The creature casually raised a telekine shield to block the projectiles being hurled against it. Its wings opened and as it took off Amon could not believe the creature could even support its own weight. "Keep firing!" Ptah shouted to the contingent of Thousand Sons and they all obeyed, assuming that Amon had told Ptah to order it. In truth, Amon was still trying to regain his sensibilities. Mercifully, several other Thousand Sons seemed to be in Amon's predicament, but none of them had the humiliation of being unmanned whilst commanding.

Several of the back members of the Brotherhood had started to mix themselves around the Thousand Sons. Their spells flew into the sky and impacted into the shimmering shield the wizened bird had erected, but none could penetrate it. Ordan and Khyron also felt it necessary to join the Thousand Sons. _They don't trust you_ , Amon thought, or at least it seemed like his own thought. It sounded like his own moreso than those of the Athanaeans, at least... and in any case it was true. Amon's jaw locked. How could Ahriman, or whatever he called himself, not trust him?

 _He loves those humans more than you._ His own thought, or a skilled sending... it mattered little. The thought was true either way. Amon had not quite realized it before, but that was the reason for Ahriman's - no, Khyron's - aggressive behavior towards the Thousand Sons.

 _Mere humans, how could he…_. Amon's train of thought was cut off when the twin-headed bird-thing landed and sent a gust of air against the gathered group.

Most under the place where the monster had landed had scattered, but a few humans had been crushed under its bulk. One fought through the pain of his ribs impaling his lungs. He drew his sword and tried to stab the creature in the leg. The staff came down and crushed the human's skull before the Sword could make the blow. "Master Khyron, it's a pleasure," the creature's left head crowed mockingly. "And Master Ordan. We are honoured!" the right head crowed with a note of bitter sarcasm. Amon could not help smiling. He did enjoy the 'masters' being insulted, even if it was by a hostile monster.

But then, Amon recognized, the masters were not exactly friendly either. And Amon had impersonated other Astartes before, in his role as leader of the Hidden Ones. Khyron did not have Ahriman's memories, nor know his name, and he wielded his powers in a manner entirely unlike Amon's brother... he was not Ahriman. But he had claimed to be a defender of the Imperial Truth, despite the context making no sense -

If the monsters overran their position, they would all die. But if the beings desecrating his brother's corpse won this battle, Amon worried their fate would be worse still.

 _And why is he so strangely concerned with those 'humans', really?_

The battle continued to rage; Khyron did not reply to the mockery. This was one of the best statements of his change. He had nothing to say, no response. All he did was throw his spear, aimed squarely for the daemon's right head. The daemon's staff moved perfectly in time for deflect the spear. Amon had not noticed that there had been a moment of silence and stillness after the time this bird-creature had landed, a moment which had been abruptly broken by Khyron's attack. The Thousand Sons, Amon among them, unleashed every bolt in their clip against the beast. Ptah, along with his fellow Pyrae and Raptora, unleashed all the spells in their arsenals, and the Swords acted in tandem. But this creature was a sorcerer without peer, and its counter attack was brutal. Warp-flames and sweeps of its crackling staff dealt fatal blows. The battle had begun in earnest….


	13. Chapter Twelve: Sors Textor

Khyron sliced through a leaping daemonette with his spear. Its reach had proved invaluable against these swift daemons many times. Living up to its name, it sang with each powerful blow it struck against Khyron's hated foes. Of all the things Khyron had kept since his departure from the home of the Eldar, only the weapon in his hand had not been dented or blunted. Khyron could not help but feel it was symbolic of his purpose. Everything else about his person had been rent and torn and bent beyond recognition, apart from his razor-sharp purpose; and that was a greater weapon than even the blade which was currently decapitating a herald as Primus and Secondus killed the daemon's mount.

The Astartes behind him were shouting something, Khyron noticed. Looking to the hillside, he saw what they were marveling at. It was nothing more than a sideways glance, but Khyron knew enough about the servants of the Dark Gods to know what the spectrum of light cresting over the hilltop heralded. Khyron battle-signed to the ten Sharp Swords around him to move through the phalanxes. Khyron and his Swords moved towards the Thousand Sons, even as the shape of a winged beast appeared over the hill. Ordan and his Shield Blades had formed an unmovable core in the center of the phalanxes. No matter how hard the legion of the unholy monstrosities pressed, the outer ring would bend but never break, while Ordan's iron core never moved, never gave any ground.

Khyron's hand gripped Ordan's shoulder as he passed by. "Brother, we must move."

"Why? We are needed here." In response, Khyron's head clicked back, and Ordan looked over the First Sword's shoulder to see the twin-headed monstrosity spreading its aged wings in order to fly towards them. "Primus, hold the Brotherhood firm. If I fall, my mantle and hammer falls to you. Secondus through Undecimus, with me and Master Khyron." The ten Shield Swords broke away with orderly fashion and moved with Khyron. "You know the Many-Faced-One has been after them for a while," Ordan said calmly as they neared the end of the phalanxes of the Brotherhood and joined the Thousand Sons. Khyron made no response, but the implication was clear. But Khyron already knew what would need to happen.

The Brotherhood was disciplined and needed no orders to commence pounding the sorcerous shield of Kairos. Bolt shells and lesser spells from the Thousand Sons were disputed by the shield just the same as those from the Brotherhood, but Khyron had expected no less. Several other Swords were killed under the weight of the Oracle falling from the sky. "Master Khyron, it's a pleasure," the creature's left head crowed mockingly. "And Master Ordan. We are honoured!" the right head crowed with a note of bitter sarcasm. Khyron knew that to engage in a verbal dispute with a Lord of Change, let alone Fateweaver itself, was to court insanity and death. Instead his launched his un-dulled spear at the Tzeentchian greater daemon. The spear boomeranged away as Kairos deflected the blow that Khyron had never expected to land.

As Khyron, the other Swords, and the Thousand Sons attacked, the spear started to swung back around. Kairos had hit the spear with such force that it had flow over the heads of most of the combatants, both daemon and human alike. It would take many long seconds to return to its master. But that did free up his hands. Several Thousand Sons charged the ancient daemon, expecting its frame to indicate its true power. An explosive strike seething with sorcerous energies which immolated four of them in one swoop proved to them otherwise. Two Swords charged the Lord of Change and got a step closer, but the rolling warp-flames which exploded out from the daemons hand proved too much for their hexagramic wards to protect against.

But the creature could not sustain its advantage forever, and no creature, mortal or daemon, could hold all the strands of fate at once. Somewhere, one was going to slip away. At some point, even the Oracle himself would be distracted. Quintus and Octavian of the Sharpest Sword Blade and Secondus and Septimus of the Shield Blades were the first to land a successful hit. Kairos brimmed with arrogance that no mere humans could best him. After all, the Gods of the Warp had snared and enticed The Emperor himself and were pulling a further half of the mightiest beings in all of human creation into Chaos; how could a rag-tag band of humans on one planet resist, let alone defeat, him?

Kairos unleashed another gout of rolling warp-flame against the four humans advancing on him. It exploded against the ward the two Shield Swords placed in front of them. The flames seemed to roll of the shield like water off a stone at first, until the shield seemed to crumple. Kairos's duel heads cackled, relishing destroying these humans who attempted to stand against the Gods of Chaos. His attention shifted and the flames subsided, his insane gaze moving onto a different mortal to demonstrate his power on. That was when the Swords struck, for Secondus and Septimus had folded the shield in a psychic feint. The shield had formed a wedge which they now drove into Kairos's immediate vicinity. The Fateweaver realised his error and brought his staff in for defence, as the Swords were now too close for his previous magic.

Octavian swung the first blow, which sparked when it collided with the daemon's staff. The blow opened up the daemon's side for Septimus to swing his mace towards the wrist of the daemon. The Lord of Change flicked the staff back, striking the Shield Sword in the side and sending him sprawling. This gave Quintus time to launch a telekine strike which Kairos blocked with ease, but forced the daemon to make use of both hands; so when Secondus, the third-most-potent Shield Sword, launched his hammer blow into the daemon's ribcage, the sound of shattering bones echoed across the battlefield. The Oracle screeched in pain and emitted a telekinetic blast that sent all of the Swords a safe distance away. But the damage had been done. Before, Kairos had been an unassailable god, but now the god had been shown to bleed. Both sides knew that for a profound shift.

The battle raged for many more long minutes. The horde was being worn down around them, but both sides could tell that the outcome of this assault would be decided by this battle. Many more perished in the attempt to bring down the Lord of Change. Three Sharp Swords tried to flank Kairos, only for him to spin round faster than a creature which looked as ancient as him should be able to before destroying them, two through blunt force and one through magic. The three Sharp Swords sacrificed their lives, and then four Thousand Sons emptied an entire magazine each of bolter ammunition into the daemon. Their bravery was rewarded with a quick but painful immolation by the hands of this demi-god.

Several lesser hits were scored, half of the swords and a third of the Thousand Sons perished, but ultimately the daemon met its end at the hands of the two masters and one seemingly ignoble Thousand Son. Khyron and Ordan charged in the wake of another attack run by Quintus, Septimus and Secondus, Octavian having fallen and his place being filled by Nonus. It had not done any real damage, but it served to distract the phenomenal intellect of the Oracle. The Masters of the Shields and the Sharpest Swords managed to get close unmolested. Then the combat started.

Kairos brought his staff round in a mighty swing, and the end of it was met by a hammer-blow from Ordan. The Master's blow psychically sparked with the Lord of Change's staff and for a moment the two beings were at a stand-still, the Master's righteous fury perfectly juxtaposing the daemons tainted power. The Oracle broke away to swing the staff round his head to block a downwards strike from Khyron. The blade of the Master of the Sharpest Swords slid down the staff's length, shedding sparks all the way. It bit into the fingers which gripped the staff's middle and took two of them clean off before the daemon pulled its hand away. A moment later, Ordan delivered another blow to the other forearm, breaking it so the limb bent at an unnatural angle and forced the daemon to drop its staff.

Kairos howled and knocked Ordan back with the brute force of its broken limb and a frantic telekine blast. Faster than anyone could account for, the three-fingered hand grabbed Khyron and pinned him to the floor, his arms unless against the full weight of the Lord of Change leaning on them. "Now, you will die. Know that your Brotherhood will fail," the bitter left head crowed as the right opened up to reveal the heart of a sun composed entirely of warp-stuff. Khyron stared into it and felt no fear, simply the immanency of his death. Then, just as abruptly as it had opened, the daemons mouth shut and then opened again in a screech of pain. Jutting out of the head was a hequa staff. Not the ornate one that would have been wielded by Amon, but the symbol of office of a Sergeant.

Ptah, from fifteen meters away, had thrown his staff into the head of the daemon, which had divided its attention too much. The staff had twirled across the short distance of the plain to embed itself into the daemon's head, and force it to recoil and release the master it had pinned to execute. Khyron wasted no time in picking up his own spear and severing the right head. The Oracle was sent sprawling.

"Impossible! My master has shown me all futures! THIS CAN NOT BE!" the one remaining head screamed indignantly at its foes. A moment later, that head exploded in a mass of ectoplasm, daemon-blood and sparks of warp-magic.

"Your master lied," Ordan spat contemptuously over the now dissolving corpse of the Lord of Change. A moment of silence marked the victory of the Brotherhood and their allies. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, it was broken by the sound of a single bolter barking once and an impact striking Ordan in the upper-abdomen, sending him flat on his back. Khyron whirled round, only to stare down the smoking barrel of Amon's bolter.

"Change rules all," the Thousand Son captain stated, before he and the eight other lost souls unleashed their sorceries on those who had, just a moment ago, been their allies and brothers. Clearly, Khyron realised as he raised his own ward and charged towards these erstwhile Astartes, the battle was far from over.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Proditores

The daemon was resplendent in its appearance, and Amon knew the sorceries it wielded were far beyond anything he or anyone in his Legion possessed. Possibly greater than Magnus himself. And these supposed Astartes, who had been stranded on this planet for who knows how long, were fighting it. If they thought they could win - and Amon had no doubt those beings thought exactly that - just how powerful were _they_?

Perhaps, of course, they had simply lost their sanity. Could they not see the majesty of the being before them? If nothing else, that creature possessed the power that could tip the balance of the war. It was possible that, in their madness, they were destroying the very creature which could help them win the war and save humanity.

Amon could not help by smile as the bird-like creature immolated more of these 'mortals'. If Khyron's band was nothing more than mad corpse-desecrators, they were hindering humanity with their blind fear of that which the warp contained. If this was some more complicated plot... but for now, Amon preferred to stay with the simplest explanation. Ahriman had remained here too long, Amon realised that now, and he would not make the mistake that had killed his brother. _They have blinded him._ Khyron pronounced himself as a 'Master' but he was a master of nothing. This creature was more of a master than Khyron would ever be. _The Master holds the key to all things._ The key to the flesh change, the key to sorceries which could tear a world asunder. _All this and more._ It could be in his hands.

It could be in his hands either way. Perhaps Khyron was a mere scavenger, but even so, he and his allies were powerful enough to fight toe-to-toe with the creature. And as much as he did not act like Ahriman, the face was the same, and somehow Amon held out hope. Only from what had been already said, Amon knew the Swords would never help him or the Legion, not as things stood.

Amon had not fired for several long moments. He had stood inert in awe of the lord in front of him. Even Magnus could learn from this majestic being. It could end the war. _Lead you on the path to glory. To new powers, unrivalled by any foe you face._ It was easy enough to remain still. Everyone around him seemed to be preoccupied with trying to attack the being that could be their salvation. Amon saw several Thousand Sons were even attacking it. _How disappointing. They could have been great._ The creature's voice, perhaps, but that did not mean it did not speak truth. Amon knew there was no reasoning with the Swords, not anymore; even an instant of hesitation would have doomed him in their fanatical eyes. And inevitably, some of his brothers would be lost here as well, he knew. They had not understood the greatness and evolution the creature embodied even as it stood in front of them. Nevertheless, Amon allowed some respect for their choice, even as he knew he would not be able to afford mercy.

But Amon could see, scattered around, brothers who had seen what he had seen, felt what he felt. They were of one mind. _They are my Chosen. The Heralds._ "Come to me, my brothers," Amon whispered into the vox with a serpentine tone. The channel would only be open to those who understood. They came without question; they jogged over the raging battlefield. They were a Coven of Nine, and Amon, as Ninth Captain, knew just how significant that was. Their power felt magnified, amplified. Only the shrieking of the lord broke the attention of the sorcerers. Amon's gaze snapped to see the creature he had admired be struck down by his arrogant, errant 'brothers', although the word no longer seemed palatable to Amon. Khyron... if he had ever been Ahriman, Amon knew he could no longer treat him or Ordan as a friend, not even Ptah. _They have denied our race its birthright._ For they were not of that race, were not human, and never had been.

Strangely, Amon felt no sadness at the creature's passing. _He had served his purpose. He had bought the Change._ And change was the only constant thing. Everything changed. Decay and death were just changes of state. Nothing was constant. Only change. _And these 'masters' seek to deny that._ A moment of silence had washed over the battlefield. They were relieved, Amon saw the truth of it now. They believed they had stopped the natural progression of humanity. Stopped its ascension. Succeeded in their plot. Amon raised his bolter with a sneer. By fate, he had one bullet left. A bullet with a name written on it, and so one that could not be fired until this moment, when it was destined to be fired. It was propelled out of the chamber and into the chest plate of the 'master' who called himself Ordan. Then Amon proclaimed the first and only truth: "Change rules all."

The horrified look on Ahriman's face was tragically beautiful - if Amon had retained any doubts that it was not Ahriman wearing it, he would have fatally hesitated then and there. Ordan, or whatever his name had originally been, still moved. No matter. Once they had disposed of the 'humans', Amon would finish him himself. Several mortals surrounded their fallen leader, swords and wards raised ready to defend him. Amon laughed at their attempts. They could not overcome a sorcerer of power comparable to his own. The ones who had not died defeating the creature now turned to attack the new threat of the enlightened Thousand Sons, nonetheless, just as they had against the lord. Amon and his coven unleashed every sorcery in their arsenal against them. Powerful lightning bolts tore through mortal flesh and destroyed red Astartes battle-plate.

Their attackers were not without resources of their own. A dozen bolters barked as the Thousand Sons Amon knew to be lost to the foolishness of Khyron and his fellows fired on the Enlightened. Telekine shields stopped the projectiles, and so the Thousand Sons drew their Hequa staffs and charged towards their foe.

* * *

Ptah unleashed a bolt of telekinetic energy at the closest Thousand Son to him - Sedjoshan, once a member of his own squad. The bolt staggered his opponent, but his own sorceries had robbed most of the strikes power.

"What madness has gripped you, brother?" Ptah called as he closed the gap between them. Inside he would be screaming at the betrayal, if not for the immediacy of combat. Any Thousand Son - any Astarte - knew that there was a time to question such things, but the heat of battle was not it.

"It is not I who am lost, but you. Can you not see?" Sedjoshan babbled as he raised his own weapon and charged at Ptah.

"I am not yet an old man, to lack sight," Ptah grunted as their blades met in sparks of iron and psychic energy.

"Oh, but you are so blind, my friend," Sedjoshan spat as he swiped widely with his Hequa blade, forcing Ptah to jump back to avoid a wound to his abdomen.

Sedjoshan lashed out with a telekine strike which Ptah barely defended against and followed it with a savage downward strike. Ptah blocked the blade high above his head. He wreathed his hand in psychic fire and punched his opponent square in the chest. The plate buckled inwards and split, but his opponent paid it no mind. Blood slowly oozed out and his opponent lashed out with more frantic strikes, his blade covered in psychic lightning and his eyes blazing a fiery yellow from the inside. Sedjoshan cackled even as his blows were mostly deflected and sustained more in return from the veteran sergeant of the Thousand Sons. The dents started to be pushed out, as if there was a pressure being applied from the inside. Ptah noticed the joints of the Astarte's armour begin to swell. Ptah and the Thousand Son locked blades and pushed against each other. Still the man was laughing, always laughing. They two broke apart and the Thousand Son tore off his helmet. His face was a shifting mass, with the only constant features being the burning eyes. Ptah had seen this before. The flesh change was taking hold. The flesh change was taking hold, in Sedjoshan, who only yesterday had been playing dice with Ptah, and the sergeant could not bring himself to truly care.

"I am Change," the distorted mouth screamed with a thousand voices as its arms became more fluid and the armour that cased the warrior began to buckle, but this time from the inside.

In the throes of its madness, the monster that had been Ptah's brother began to care less about its own safety. Ptah exploited this and, after a wide and careless slash, he sliced his opponent's arm clean off. But instead of blood, flesh flowed out. It flowed and flowed until the stream of flesh had become a flailing lash of skin and muscle with a pinkish hue. The tentacle dived at Ptah's shoulder and, to his surprise, punched through his shoulder guard. The flesh whip carved through skin and broke the bone in his shoulder, and Ptah cried out in pain. The tentacle pressed in harder, forcing the veteran sergeant to his knees. The pain was excruciating. The monster that had once been Sedjoshan loomed over him, and its jaw opened wider than any human or Astartes ever should. It was going to devour him whole. Pushing through the pain in his shoulder, Ptah desperately drove his blade into the creature's chest. Ptah focused all the power he could muster to travel along the blade. The monstrosity blazed with a psychic flare and recoiled as the sorcerous fire consumed it from the inside.

Elsewhere, the story was the same. Those Astartes who had fallen unleashed foul sorceries against their brothers and the Brotherhood. The flesh-change claimed two others, and mortals and Astartes alike worked together to bring down these…traitors. They had betrayed themselves and their brothers; they could not be called anything else. Khyron scythed through a bloated monstrosity with one arm that breathed warp flame. It had just consumed his Decimus, even as the creature's blade had opened what may well be a mortal wound in another Thousand Son's chest. Khyron's spear sung with glee as it split the monster from head to toe.

"False Ahriman!" The booming, cackling voice carried across the battlefield. Amon held off his opponents, but Khyron knew that he wanted to face him. "Dare you face me in single combat? Or dare you not and so send your lackeys to die for you?" Amon challenged him.

Khyron knew he could beat this fallen Astarte. "You will die like all other heretics," Khyron's curt response came. Amon rushed at him and Khyron motioned the others to let him try. He could deal with this one, and the rest were falling one by one. This would be over soon.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Principium et Finis

Khyron's spear rose up and blocked Amon's downward strike. The two weapons sparked, and lightning arced off of them in the brief moment they were in contact. Khyron stepped sidewards and brought the blunt end of his weapons into the Thousand Son's side. It was a powerful blow aimed straight for the fibre bundles in Amon's Mark IV armour. It connected, bursting capillaries and bruising flesh. Not a mortal or even a potent wound but, imbued with kinetic energy, it was enough to stagger the Thousand Son. Khyron tried to advance but a sweep of Amon's Hequa staff kept him at bay.

The potential energy built and the air grew cold. Khyron had only an instant to raise his psychokinetic shield. Crackling warp lighting crashed against his ward.

 _"It was never enough for you, was it, brother?"_ came the screech of Amon's disgust as his psychic powers rolled off Khyron's shield. Although the blinding light obscured his normal vision, Khyron felt Amon coming for him. Khyron spun to the side as he let his shield down, avoiding Amon's questing deadly blade.

"You are no brother of mine." Khyron's voice was stern. He knew Amon's face. The memories, the person he had once been screamed within him to be set free. He couldn't. He had made that bargain long ago and he would not turn back now. Not after everything he had suffered. Not after all that lay before him.

 _"The knowledge of Prospero's spires. Our Father's teachings. Everything we learnt. It just wasn't enough for you, was it?! You had to come here!"_ Amon continued to wail as his weapon came dangerously close to Khyron's face. It gouged a superficial rent in his chest-plate, but the heat from the hequa's blade burnt the skin beneath it. Khyron's spear came round and sliced just underneath Amon's shoulder. The blade bit deep. Amon lashed out with a telekinetic strike that forced Khyron back, wrenching his spear from his shoulder too. Blood poured profusely and the flesh bubbled and ran like lava over the wound.

 _"But how could you have fallen? Left your body to this failure? This is humanity's birthright! This knowledge, this power, it should have been **ours**!"_ Amon conjured bolts of psychic force and hurled them at Khyron. They were not the disciplined strikes of a man focused on the Enumerations Magnus had taught his sons. These were raw bolts of power, pulled from the aether by a man who was too wounded and prideful to be mindful of whence they came. Khyron grunted with each he deflected. A powerful psyker such as Amon was no simple opponent. Worse still, something coalesced around these betrayers. The Gods were desperate. This was this last chance they would have to destroy the Brotherhood of the Sword. Seeds of corruption planted long ago matured faster than they should have. They wielded more power than they knew how to. And their best hope was Amon. A suicide bomb to detonate in the heart of the Brotherhood and slay it before it could grow.

Khyron could not allow that. It had to endure. They had already come through so much, _too much_ , for it to all come to nothing here on these shifting sands.

"Enough, Amon!" He bellowed, his voice powerful enough to give Amon pause. Something in Khyron's voice shackled him and bound him for an instant. It was more than his name. Ahriman knew him, knew who he was, what he had and what he lacked. The power of his name tied his flesh and stopped his heart. An instant later his limbs regained their strength. He went to strike at his usurping brother, but Ahriman was already coming for him, body and soul.

Khyron reached for Amon with hands formed of psychic power and Amon could do nothing to prevent them wrenching him from his body. Both were veteran psykers and so their bodies continued to fight on reflex, but that was not where the true duel was anymore. Both Astartes flew high and apart. Amon tried to focus his spiritual form into something constant, but his power wouldn't let him. His limbs shifted and warped themselves into avian and serpentine forms, and then into other unnatural things. Some might have been disturbed by seeing their inner self so in flux, but Amon accepted such inconsistencies as natural and necessary. It was a fundamental truth that to survive, one must adapt and change.

Khyron's form was an island of constancy compared to Amon's riotous amalgamation of pieces of truths and lies being fed to him. His blades wings stretched out and his hooked talons opened in anticipation. Light shone from him, bright and terrifying as the dawn is to the midnight blackness. _"Why do you deny our species its inheritance?_ Amon's overlapping voices quested, perhaps hoping to open a doubt in Ahriman's mind.

"This is not humanity's birthright…" Khyron's golden voice spoke, burning Amon as his words wrapped around him. "…it is humanity's curse."

 _"Lies!"_

Amon's sapient limb rounded to strike Khyron's golden chest. His wings came round to protect him. The strike landed, but the bladed feathers held firm and Amon could feel his flesh charring. He recoiled. The longer this fight went on, the less he could stand to be in Khyron's presence. He hated him. He had hidden this knowledge from him. He had not opened himself to him. Not explained what had become of him or what had changed. That much, Khyron knew even without any attempt to stare into the maelstrom that was Amon's mind.

The defensive wall of light opened up and Khyron's razor-sharp beak came for him, tearing at his chest. A tentacled limb came up and coiled around Ahriman's throat, but the blazing talons tore it apart and pulled it from around his wind-pipe. The limb fell as the embattled foes climbed higher.

Khyron stabbed and tore at his foe. His talons tore limbs apart as quickly as they formed from the engorged mass that had become of Amon. His beak stabbed the centre, silencing lying mouths and tearing out cataracted eyes.

 _"How long will you lie to humanity?"_ one voice accused. Khyron didn't answer, didn't even try to think of an answer. To do so would be to court madness and heresy. The mass flailed with greater intensity, tearing plumes of golden feathers from his wings even as the burned Amon to hold. One limb, little more than a shard of bone, rent a deep line down the side of Khyron's face, blinding one eye and scoring his beak.

"Begone son of Chaos!" Khyron finally yelled, his voice carrying every measure of power he could muster. His beak and talons drove into the centre of the wailing mass of Amon's corrupted soul and rent it apart. With a crack of energy and scream of eternal pain, the soul of the Thousand Son exploded, obliterated by the force of Khyron's dogmatic power. His wounded form fell back into his body. He panted. He was exhausted. His limbs ached and his head throbbed from the mental strain that the battle had inflicted on him. He stood steady and watched Amon's lifeless corpse topple backwards and ashen ruins pour out of the rents in his amour.

Unable to stand anymore, Khyron fell to his knees. He tore off his helmet, ruptured cables leaking small amounts of fluid down his neck. He leaned forward and a few drops of blood fell from his mouth and nose and were drunk up by the thirsty ground. Around him he could hear nothing but silence. Five slow droplets of blood from his leaking nose echoed in his mind before he could hear footsteps approaching him. Eight by his reckoning, and one lighter and more syncopated than the others.

"Do you require a healer, brother?" That was Arno's voice. Khyron slowly shook his head.

"Ordan…." Khyron whispered the name as a question.

"He lives."

Khyron nodded.

He stayed on his knees for several more moments before finally forcing himself to stand once again. The Masters of the Brotherhood stood around him, each battered and bruised almost as much as himself. The only oddity was the Eldar seer, whose leg was an ugly shade of crimson as he leant against his staff for support.

"Eldrad. We wondered if you had forgotten your promise." The Farseer nodded.

"I thought you might be dead." There was an uncomfortable moment of silence in the gathered council. Khyron chuckled. It was infectious. Before long the nine of them were laughing, despite their wounds, at the absurdity of both party's comments.

"This is quite the cult you have here, Master Khyron."

"This is no cult…" Valdar spoke. He had been the first to suggest forming the Brotherhood, although he would never claim such an honour. "This is the Brotherhood of the Eagle."

"Nam symbolum!" came the chorus of chants from the gathered humans, most standing despite their weariness. Some sat, but they chanted all the louder to be heard.

"Apologies. This _Brotherhood_ , what is their purpose?" Eldrad enquired.

"Their purpose?" Geronitan repeated, his curiously high voice giving the words a mocking inflection.

"You sent us to become weapons…" Dhask spoke, his husky timbre sobering the mood Geronitan had created. "…And now we will make weapons of our own."

"They will become like us…" Pelenas' smooth voice drew Eldrad. "…A mighty priesthood. Holy and terrible to behold by our foes."

Eldrad understood. He and Horus had sent them to become weapons. They had forged others in their likeness. Those who fought for humanity had suspected they would only gain back what they had given. Instead, they had an army. With the mon-keigh's gene-forging capabilities, they could and would raise at least a century of fighting men, anathema to the Emperor and his daemonic allies.

"Sirs." A voice from the crowd. The little council turned to regard this fresh member of their conversation. Ptah stood at the head of a group of Thousand Sons, reduced by nearly half from what they had been. "What happened to Amon and the others? Was it the Flesh-change?" The Masters glanced amongst themselves. Astartes were supposed to know no fear, but the possibility of such a rampant disease did give him pause. He wanted answers.

Ordan stepped forward to give them. "No. Your brethren were corrupted. As much a ploy by the Enemy as that assault was. They wish to stop us and twisted your brothers against us in order to try and reach that end." Ptah's face screwed slightly, trying to understand what he was being told.

"Is such corruption not from the Emperor? How can it affect a loyal son…."

"The Emperor is a symptom of greater disease, like Amon was. Chaos is the true source of this corruption. It may affect any man, great or lowly, and that is why we must always be wary."

"Speak plainly, damn it!" Ptah barked.

Several hands went to their weapons and men already weary adjusted their stances to do battle once again. Ordan made no motion for them to lower their weapons, he only fixed Ptah with a soul-bearing glare.

The Thousand Son raised his hands in apology. "I just want to know what happened to my Captain."

Ordan nodded empathetically. "I understand, but I cannot give you what you seek. Few minds can handle such knowledge. That is part of Amon's corruption. Despite what you have heard, not all knowledge is good." The arrayed Brotherhood eyed Ptah, wondering what he would do. To his credit he simply bowed in acknowledgement, understanding he had heard all he would be told.

"I trust you brought all we asked your father for?" Khyron spoke again, his voice still croaky from tiredness. Ptah nodded.

"It awaits you on the _Imohtek_. The Thunderhawks will take us back to it." Several Masters nodded in satisfaction.

"Let us leave this planet then. We have a greater work to do and you…" Khyron nodded at Eldrad. "…have a bargain to uphold." Without a word, the members of the Brotherhood moved towards the Thunderhawks. Ptah began ordering his men to transport the corpses of their brethren back to the flyers when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Leave the traitors here Son of Magnus…" Ptah turned and Drystann met his gaze. "…let their treachery die with this world." Ptah nodded as the Master walked towards the awaiting Thunderhawk that would carry him off a planet he had spent eternity on.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Primum Multorum

Ptah was silent on the Thunderhawk's ascent. He had done as Drystann had ordered and left Amon's body to the carrion birds. It felt wrong. Whatever had happened on that killing field, whatever Amon had just done, it did not erase a lifetime of good works done in the name of humanity. His fingers intertwined and he leant forward into them, staring at no particular patch of the Thunderhawk's floor. He breathed deeply and sighed through his nose. He had been on countless battlefields, faced down foes that would make any mortal soil himself. Why did this trouble him so?

With Amon's death, command fell to him. The battle and then the ensuing betrayal had left him with a force half the size he had come with. And half of those were now rotting under the baleful glare of that tear in the fabric of reality, one which he had heard several of these crowding mortals refer to as "The Eye". Ptah was Raptora, but he knew enough of the Corvidae teachings to recognise the symbolism in that. A great, lidless eye, forever watching and judging. It was a trick used in past to force humans to conform to social norms, to make them believe there was some entity watching them at all times so that they would never rebel. It was an omen, a warning, a _maleficarum_ as Fenrisians were so keen on calling it.

"Sir!" a curt voice broke his introspection. Ptah looked up. It one of Amon's men - no, his men - named Mbizi, standing over him. The man had no significant psychic talent, but he was a deft enough shot with his bolter that one might believe he did. "We're about to dock back with the _Imohtek_. The captain wanted to speak to Amon." Ptah nodded understandingly. What did he tell the captain? How did he explain what had happened in that crash of color and madness?

*Tell him nothing,* a voice, forceful and sudden, said to him. He was used to psychic communications, but this was totally unexpected. It had somehow bypassed his defences and even his senses. *Tell him nothing.* He felt the words threaten to come out of his mouth against his will. He swallowed them back down.

"Tell the captain I will explain everything when I'm on board." Mbizi nodded and turned to do just that. The presence in his head was gone, but if Ptah had missed it entering his mind, there was no guarantee.

Soon, the whole Thunderhawk thrummed with the sound of engines cycling down. Thousand Sons formed ranks to exit, as did the members of 'The Brotherhood' who had ridden with them. The ramp lowered and the false light of the hangar flooded in. Quickly the men in the troop compartment diffused into the hangar, the Thousand Sons disarming and going about their business and The Brotherhood simply forming mute, motionless phalanxes. They didn't seem shocked by the technology on display. Rather they seemed apprehensive, on guard. There was a vigilant look about all of them, the way their hands never strayed far from their weapons and their eyes always darted about, never resting in one place for long. It was a rather impressive display of mistrust, one that Ptah had no idea how to assuage.

"Captain Ptah!" a cool, jovial voice echoed across the chamber, the same one that had echoed in his mind. Geronitan raised his hand and drew Ptah's eye. "Make arrangements for these men's accommodation, will you?" The Master swanned off after his brethren, who disappeared down one of the many adjacent corridors, eight of their mortals in tow. Ptah snorted. This was a vessel of the Thousand Sons, and these nameless Astartes walked about it as if they were its firstborn masters. It was odd to him that Geronitan was so jovial. All the rest of them seemed to have become more sombre, except the pale Master.

Ptah obliged Geronitan's command, though. The _Imohtek_ was a large vessel capable of supporting many more Astartes than they had brought with them. Finding space for these mortals was no problem, except that it took time. Whilst his conscious mind worked out the logistics of housing almost five hundred mortals, his subconscious processed what had happened on the surface. What he knew was that Magnus and Horus had sent Amon and the Eldar to recover some weapon they had been developing, and that they had been sent with supplies of gene-seed, armour and weapons in abundance, presumably to resupply those who had been developing said weapon. But all he had now was a vessel full of distrusting mortals and eight Astartes he only half-recognised. How was that supposed to turn the tide of the war?

Under his feet, the vessel shook. Ptah broke his introspection. Were they under attack? No warning klaxons blared. Once again the floor shuddered.

"Captain…" Ptah barked into the vox to the ship's captain "…what the name of the Great Ocean is happening?" Ptah didn't get a reply. He turned to face the thunderhawks again. "Captain - " he was about to yell at the shipmaster again; but he didn't need to. Through the void shields of the open hanger he could see it. Cadia was burning. Great rents of lava erupted and consumed entire continents. The world was dying, and its secrets with it. Cyclonic torpedoes and lance strikes continued to batter the wounded planet until it imploded, spraying out a fast field of asteroids that glanced off the void shields and tumbled into the infinite blackness of space. It was a display that under normal conditions the _Imohtek_ would not have enough firepower to achieve, but he supposed the planet had always been unstable.

"Sorry, my lord. Orders from Master Khyron." And that was all the shipmaster had to say.

Ptah stalked through the halls. Eventually he found them, huddled in the Apothecarion with the eldar seer and the gene-seed that the _Imohtek_ had brought with it. He opened his mouth to speak, to spit fury and insolence at them. Pelenas beat him to words.

"Can we help you, Captain Ptah?" His voice was smooth and disarming.

"Who gave you the authority to destroy that planet?" His words were not as forceful as he would have hoped. He could feel himself being manipulated subtly, but could not seem to stop it or protect against it.

"The Imperium did." Dhask's voice was like the roll of thunder in the distance. Ptah snorted derisively. What did that even mean? Authority came from a person. Magnus, Horus, their Captain. One could not simply claim it.

However, none of this little cabal seemed forthcoming with any other explanation.

"That's it? You condemn a planet to oblivion, ignore the chain of command…"

"We are outside your command." It was Arno's turn to speak, his bare hands covered with viscera and continuing to work. Ptah watched him for a few moments, the petty quibble of command forgotten or at least put to one side. There were several different gene-seeds that he seemed to be splicing together.

"What…" Ptah whispered, more to himself. He coughed and spoke louder. "What are you doing?"

Khyron sighed. "We have indulged you for quite long enough."

"Indulged me?!" Ptah scoffed at that. "…I am the ranking officer on this ship, and you will answer…"

"We will do no such thing!" Khyron's presence seemed to grow and fill the room like a malevolent shadow, his voice becoming deep hand cold. "We do what we must and the knowledge we hold we bought at a great cost. Those who wish to subvert us or covet our power are traitors and heretics all. Those who do not understand may seek to stop us, but we are not answerable to men such as they!" Ptah held his ground, but his words shrivelled up in his mouth. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Khyron stared him down, as if daring him to ask another question or make another demand. He didn't. "We will tell you what is necessary for you to know. But know this, what we keep from you we do not do out of malice, but out of care."

Eldrad limped forward, still mainly supported by his staff. "Know this, Ptah, your father and uncles consented to this union. Whatever happens here, whatever they do, it carries their authority with it."

"If I am reluctant to trust them, what makes you think I would trust you, xeno witch?" Ptah sneered. Eldrad paid it no mind.

"If you do not wish to see the Imperium crumble to ash and all you have worked for to come to ruin, you would do well not to hinder us," Valdar said from the corner of the room.

"How can I trust you, when you will not tell me anything?"

Drystann laughed a mirthless laugh. It was the kind of laugh that made you worry about the fate of those who were laughed at. "You don't, and you shouldn't. For we will be always watching, always ready. The moment you show the slightest deviation, the moment we even suspect you to be in league with the Enemy, we will kill you and rid the galaxy of your taint. We don't need your trust; it is of no use to us. All we need is for you to follow our word as law."

Ptah mulled this over. He didn't know what made it worse, that he couldn't trust these men who by all rights should be his allies, or that they didn't seem to care. As much as he hated that he had to fraternise with the Eldar, Horus and Magnus had sent him with them and so he had to assume his words were true.

"Then where shall we head to? Back to Horus and my Father?"

"No, not yet," Ordan spoke, gently shaking his head. "First we must acquire some materials from our eldar allies. Eldrad…" the Farseer turned his head round. "…guide Ptah to your kin. Time is of the essence."

Eldrad's brow furrowed. Evidently it was enjoyable to see the 'mon-keigh' put in his place, but now that such a tone of implicit authority turned its attention on him, he found it most unsavoury. Still he bowed shallowly. "As you say."

* * *

The Thousand Son and the Eldar left and the Council of Eight was left alone. So far they had found gene-seed from each of the legions loyal to Horus and humanity in the stocks provided for them. They had woven the strands of their individual power together into a single gene-seed. It was potent, but not enough. "Dhask, lock this room down," Arno politely told his equal. A moment later the room was quarantine sealed and psychically locked. One by one, each master surrendered a vial of dark crimson and Arno shattered them one by one over the gene-seed, the liquid seeping in as if it possessed a sentience of its own.

Finally it came to Arno, who produced two such vials. He held them steady above the gene-seed. The others began to weave incantations of their own, binding the essences together. It was a powerful blood ritual, one that could combine the essences of men together. But that was simple enough. What made it challenging was that it was not the essences of men they were combining, but of Primarchs, some taken from the gene-seed given unto them, some of it snatched from the rolling currents of the warp. A fraction of their power, so little that it would not be noticed. They could have tried to take it from the Emperor himself, but he would have known and found them. They were not ready. They still had to arm and armour themselves before they could face down the legions of the Warp.

Arno's fists shattered the last of the vials. Shards of glass became embedded in his hands, but no blood flowed. The essence ran over his fingers, never sinking in, and fell onto the gene-seed below. The room held an expectant breath. This was the first time that all the shattered parts of the Emperor, divided amongst the Primarchs, had come together in one place. The gene-seed began to pulsate softly. As dim corona of light highlighted it. Arno smiled. He carefully lifted the vessel up and placed it in with the rest of the stock they had been given. It dissolved in the ammonic fluid, the glittering particles worming its way into all the other gene-seeds, making them into vessels too. Soon they would be ready to begin implanting those they had been training for generations. And once they had the secrets of the eldar, they would be complete in their transformation.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in the seventh book of the Renegades Saga, _When Death Calls_. (While I haven't been able to get confirmation from the author that the story is supposed to end here, it's a good enough breaking point that I'm tentatively declaring it complete; the plot thread will be picked up in a later entry.)


End file.
